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The  Art  of  Being  Bored: 
a  Comedy  in  Three  Acts : 
by  Edouard  Pailleron: 
Translated  by  Barrett  H. 
Clark  and  Hilmar  Bauk- 
hage 


Samuel  French :  Publisher 

28-30  West  Thirty-eighth  Street :  New  York 


LONDON 


Samuel  French,  Ltd. 

26  Southampton  Street,  Strand 

PRICE  TWENTY-FIVE  CENTS 


THE    WORLD'S    BEST     PLAY^ 

BY  CEtEBRATEtt  EUROPEAN  AUTHORS 

BARRETT   H.     CLARK 
Q5NERAU    EOlTOft 


rhe  Art  of  Being  Bored: 
a  Comedy  in  Three  Acts : 
by  Edouard  Pailleron: 
Translated  by  Barrett  H. 
Clark  and  Hilmar  Bank- 
hage 


Samuel  French :  Publisher 

28-30  West  Thirty-eighth  Street :  New  York 


LONDON 


Samuel  French,  Ltd. 

26  SouthanTpto^  Street,   Strand 


isv  BARRETT  H.  OLARk 


EDOUARD  PAILLERON. 

The  author  of  "  Le  Monde  ou  Ton  s'ennuie " 
was  born  at  Paris  in  1834.  Besides  this,  his  master- 
piece, he  wrote  numerous  comedies,  sentimental  and 
satirical.  Pailleron  is  in  no  way  concerned  with 
problems  or  ''  ideas ;  "  he  is  cantent  to  depict  the 
foibles  and  affectations  of  society,  framing  his 
observations  into  a  harmonious  and  unified  whole. 
This  play  was  first  produced,  at  Paris,  in  1881,  and 
has  since  held  the  stage,  both  in  France  and  Ger- 
many. 

The  scenery  and  costumes  are  modern. 
Owing  to  the  number  of  characters,  some  atten- 
tion must  be  paid  to  the  grouping  of  stage  pictures. 
The  stage-directions,  if  carefully  followed  will 
supply  sufficient  information  to  enable  the  director 
to  group  with  ease. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Bell  AC 

Roger  de  Ceran 

Paul  Raymond 

toulonnier 

General  de  BriaiSv 

ViROT   -^  riJ.yY'^^ ^--: 

Francois 
Saint-Reault 
Galac 

Melchior  de  Boines 
Des  Millets 
Duchess  de  Reville 
Madame  de  Loudan 
Jeanne  Raymond 
Lucy  Watson 
Suzanne  de  Villi ers 
Countess  de  Ceran 
Madame  Arriego 
Madame  de  Boines 
Madame  de  Saint-Reault 

Scene: — A  drawing-room  in  Madame  de  Ceran's 
chateau  at  Saint  Germain. 


The  Art  of  Being  Bored* 


ACT  I. 


A  drazving-room,  zvith  a  large  entrance  at  the  back, 
opening  upon  another  room.  Entrances  up  and 
down  stage.  To  the  left  between  the  tzvo  doors, 
a  piano.  Rights  an  entrance  down-stage,  on 
the  same  side;  farther  up,  a  large  alcove  with 
a  glazed  door  leading  into  the  garden,  left;  a 
table,  on  either  side  of  zvhicli  is  a  chair;  to  the 
right,  a  small  table  and  a  sofa,  armchairs,  etc. 

Francois.  (Looking  among  the  papers  zvhich 
litter  the  table)  It  couldn't  be  on  top  here — nor 
here :  Rez'ue  Materialiste  .  .  .  Revue  des  Cotirs — 
Journal  des  Savants 

{Enter  Iajcy.) 

Lucy.  Well,  Francois,  have  vou  found  the  let- 
ter? 

Francois.     No,  Miss  T.ucy,  not  yet. 

Lucy.     Pink  paper — opened — no  envelope? 

Francois.     Is  it  addressed  to  Miss  Watson? 

Lucy.     Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  addressed  to  me? 

Francois.    But 

Lucy.     The  point  is,  have  you  found  it? 

Francois.  Not  yet,  but  I  shall  look  everywhere, 
and  ask- 

Lucy.     Don't  ask ;  there's  no  need.     But  it  must 

3 


'4  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

be  found,  so  look  carefully.  Go  over  every  foot 
of  ground  from  where  you  gave  us  our  letters  this 
morning,  to  this  room.  It  couldn't  have  fallen  any- 
where else.  Please,  please  hunt  for  it!  {She  goes 
out) 

Francois.  {Alone,  as  he  returns  to  the  table) 
"  Hunt,  hunt  ?  "  Revue  Coloniale — Revue  Diplo- 
matique— Revue  Archeologique ^ 

{Enter  Jeanne  and  Paul.) 

Jeanne.  {Gaily)  Someone  here!  {To  Fran- 
cois)    Madame  de  Ceran 

Paul.  {Taking  her  hand)  Sh!  {To  Fran- 
cois, gravely)  Is  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Ceran 
in  the  chateau  at  present? 

Francois.    Yes,  Monsieur. 

Jeanne.  {Gaily)  Very  well,  tell  her  that  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Paul 

Paul.  {As  before,  coldly)  Be  good  enough 
to  announce  to  her  that  M.  Raymond,  Sub-prefect  * 
of  Agenis,  and  Mme.  Raymond,  have  arrived  from 
Paris,  and  await  her  pleasure  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

Jeanne.    And  that 

Paul.     {As  before)     Sh.     That's  all,  please. 

Francois.  Very  well,  M.  le  Sous-prefet. 
{Aside)  Newly  weds!" —  Shall  I  take  Mon- 
sieur's—  ?  {He  takes  their  bags  and  rugs,  and  goes 
out) 

Jeanne.    Now,  Paul 

Paul.     No  "  Paul  "  here:  ''  M.  Raymonc 

Jeanne.    What,  d'you  want  me  to ? 

Paul.     Not  here,  I  tell  you. 

Jeanne.     {Laughing)     What  a  scowl  f 

Paul.     Please,  you  mustn't  laugh  out  loud  here. 

■''A  prefect  is  the  officer  in  charffp  of  thr,  r;,dniin!sirative  affairs  of 
the  '  D5partement,"  one  of  the  96  divisions  of  France — Tr. 

eanne  uses  the  *'  tu  "  of  familiar  discourse,  in  place  of  the  rnore 
formal "  vous." 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  5 

Jeanne.  How  is  this,  Monsieur,  you  are  scolding 
me?  {She  throzvs  herself  into  his  arms,  but  he 
disengages  himself,  terrified) 

Paul.  Silly!  That  would  be  enough  to  spoil 
everything ! 

Jeanne.    Oh!    What  a  1  jo  re ! 

Paul.  Precisely!  That  time  you  struck  ex- 
actly the  righu  note.  You  surely  haven't  forgotten 
all  I  told  you  in  the  train? 

Jeanne.     Why,  I  thought  you  were  joking! 

Paul.  Joking?  So  you  don't  want  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  Prefect? — Tell  me? 

Jeanne.    Yes,  if  it  would  please  you. 

Paul.  Very  well.  dear.  I  call  you  dear,  as  we 
are  alone,  but  later  on,  before  the  guests,  it  must  be 
merely  Jeanne.  The  Comtesse  de  Ceran  has  done 
me  the  honor  of  asking  m.e  to  introduce  to  her  my 
young  wife,  and  of  spending  a  few  days  here  at  her 
chateau  at  St.  Germain.  Mme.  de  Ceran's  circle 
is  one  of  the  three  or  four  most  influential  in  Paris. 
We  are  not  here  to  amuse  ourselves.  I  come  here 
merely  a  Sub-prefect ;  I  am  determined  to  leave,  a 
Prefect — Everything  depends  on  her — upon  us — 
upon  you ! 

Jeanne.     Upon  me?     What  do  you  mean? 

Paul.  Of  course,  on  you  1  Society  judges 
a  man  by  his  wife,  and  society  is  right.  Therefore 
be  on  your  guard. — Dignity  without  pride;  a 
knov\dng  smile — ears  and  eyes  open,  lips  closed ! 
Oh,  compliments,  as  many  as  you  like,  and  quota- 
tions, short  and  authoritative :  for  philosophy  try 
Hegel ;  for  literature,  Jean  Paul ;  politics 

Jeanne.     But  I  don't  understand  politics. 

Paul.     Here  all  the  women  talk  politics. 

Jeanne.  Well,  I  know  nothing  wiiatever  about 
it. 

Paul.  Neither  do  they,  but  that  doesn't  make 
any  difference.  Cite  Pufendorff  and  Machiavelli  as 
if  they  were  your  own  relatives,  and  talk  about  the 


6  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Council  of  Trent  as  if  you  had  presided  over  it.  As 
for  your  amusements :  chamber  music,  strolls  in 
garden,  and  whist — that's  all  I  can  allow.  Your 
clothes  must  be  chosen  with  great  care,  and  as  for 
Latin — use  a  few  words  that  I've  taught  you — In 
a  week's  time  I  want  it  to  be  said  of  you :  "  Ah, 
that  little  Mme.  Raymond  will  be  the  wife  of  a 
Cabinet  Minister  some  day !  "  And  in  this  circle, 
you  know,  when  they  say  that  a  v^oman  will  be  a 
Cabinet  Minister's  wife,  her  husband  is  not  very 
far  from  a  portfolio. 

Jeanne.  What?  Do  you  want  to  be  Minister? 
— Why? 

Paul.  In  order  to  prevent  myself  from  becom- 
ing famous. 

Jeanne.  But  Mme.  de  Ceran  belongs  to  the 
opposition;  what  can  you  expect  from  her? 

Paul.  How  simple  you  are !  In  the  matter  of 
political  positions,  there  is  only  the  slightest  shade 
of  difference  betvv-een  th'e  Conservatives  and  their 
opponents :  the  Consen,-atives  ask  for  places  and 
their  opponents  accept  them.  Xo,  no,  my  child, 
>  this  is  the  place  where  reputations  are  made  and  un- 
made and  made  over ;  where,  under  the  appearance 
of  talking  literature  and  art,  Machiavellian  con- 
spirators hatch  their  schemxes :  this  is  the  small 
private  entrance  to  the  ministries,  the  antechamber 
of  the  Academies,  the  laboratory  of  success ! 

Jeanne.    Heavens  !    What  sort  of  circle  is  this  ? 

Paux.  It  is  the  1881  edition  of  the  Hotel  dt 
Rambouillet :  a  section  of  society  where  everybody 
talks  and  poses,  where  pedantry  masquerades  2lz 
knowledge,  sentimentality  as  sentiment  and  preci- 
osity as  delicacy  and  refinement ; — here  no  one  ever 
dreams  of  saying  what  he  thinks,  and  never  be- 
lieves what  one  says,  where  friendship  is  a  matter 
of  cold  calculation,  and  chivalrv  and  manner- 
merely  means  to  an  end.  It  is  wher^j  one  swaHow- 
his  tongue  in  the  drawing-room  fust  as  he  leaves 


THE  ART  OF  BEIXG  BORED.  7 

his  cane  in  th*t  hallway:  in  short.  Society  where  one 
leams  the  art  of  being  serious ! 

Jeanne.    I  should  say,  the  art  of  being  bored  I 

Paul.    Precisely ! 

Jeanne.  Hut  if  everyone  bores  ever}^one  el^e. 
what  possible  influence  can  it  all  have? 

Paul.  What  iniluence?  How  simple  you  are! 
You  ask  what  in^mr.ce  can  boredom  exert,  here,  in 
this  country?  A  great  deal,  I  tell  you.  You  see. 
the  Frenchman  has  a  horror  amounting  almost  to 
veneration  of  boredom.  Ennui  is  for  him  a  ter- 
rible god  whose  worship  is  celebrated  by  good- 
form.  He  recognizes  nothing  as  serious  unless  it 
is  in  regulation  dress.  I  don't  say  that  he  practises 
what  he  preaches,  but  that  is  only  a  further  reason 
for  believing  more  firmly :  he  prefers  believing  to 
finding  out  for  him.self.  I  tell  you.  this  nation, 
which  is  at  bottom  gay.  despises  itself  for  being  so : 
it  has  forgotten  its  faith  in  the  good  commonsense 
of  its  generous  laughter,  this  sceptical  and  talka- 
tive nation  believes  in  those  who  have  little  to  say, 
this  whole-hearted  and  amiable  people  allows  itself 
to  be  imposed  upon  by  pedantic  false  pride  and  the 
pretentious  asaninit)'  of  the  -pontiffs  of  the  white 
dress  neck-tie:  in  politics,  in  science,  in  art.  in 
literature,  in  ever)i:hing !  These  they  scoff  at,  hate. 
fly  from  as  from  pestilence,  yet  they  alone  preserve 
for  these  things  a  secret  admiration  and  perfect 
confidence!  And  you  ask  what  influence  has  bore- 
dom? Ah,  my  dear  g^rl,  there  are  just  two  kinds 
of  people  in  the  world :  those  who  don't  know  ho  v 
to  bore  themselves,  and  who  are  nobodies  ;  and  those 
who  know  how  to  bore  themselves,  and  who  are 
somebody — ^besides  those  who  know  how  to  bore 
others!  J..^"""^ 

Jeanne.  .\nd  this  is  the  sort  of  place  you've 
brought  me  to ! 

Paul.  Do  you  want  to  be  a  Prefect's  wife? 
Tell  me  ? 


8  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Jeanxe.     Oh,  to  begin  with,  I  could  never 

Paul.     Oh,  never  mind!     It's  only  for  a  v/eek! 

Jeanne.  A  week !  Without  speaking,  'without 
laughing,  without  a  kiss  from  you ! 

Paul.  That's  before  company;  but  when  we 
are  alone — in  the  dark,  oh,  then!  Why,  it  will  be 
delightful;  we'll  arrange  secret  meetings,  in  the 
garden,  everywhere — just  as  we  did  before  we  were 
married — at  your  father's,  do  you  remember? 

Jeanne.  Yery  well,  very  well! — {She  opens 
the  piano  and  plays  an  air  from  La  Fille  de  Madame 
An  got  *)  •  * 

Paul.  (Terrified)  Very  v.ell,  then! — \\'hat 
are  you  doing  there  ? 

Jeanne.    It's  from  the  opera  we  saw  last  night! 

Paul.  My  poor  child,  so  this  is  the  way  you  mak^ 
use  of  my  advice ! 

Jeanne,  We  sat  in  a  baignoire,T  together — 
wasn't  it  lovely,  Paul !     "  " 

Paul.  Jeanne ! — Jeanne ! — What  if  someone 
should  come  in !    Please ! 

(Francois  appears  at  the  back.) 

Paul.  Too  late!  (Jeanne  changes  the  air  she 
was  playing  into  a  Beethoven  Symphony.  Aside) 
Beethoven! — Bravo!  {He  listens  to  the  music  with 
profound  satisfaction)  Ah,  it's  a  fact  that  the  only 
place  for  music  is  the  Consen-atoire!  " 
^ -i*5L\NC0is.  Madame  la  Comtesse  requests  Mon- 
sieur le  Sous-prefet  to  wait  live  minutes  for  her : 
she  is  in  consultation  with  Monsieur  le  Baron  Eriel 
de  Saint-Reault. 

Paul.    The  Orientalist  ? 

Francois.  I  do  not  knoA .  Monsieur,  he  is  the 
son  of  the  scientist  whose  father  was  so  talented 

Paul.     (Aside)    And  vdio  lias  so  many  positions 

*  a  celebrated  light  oporr..— Tr- 

SA  small  box  beneath  the  balcony  c«mmonin  French  Theatres — 
Tt. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  9 

to  dispose  of !  He's  tl\e  one ! — Ah,  M.  de  Saint-  * 
Reault  is  here,  then ;  I  presume  that  Mme.  de  Saint-  * 
Reault  is  \Yith  him  ? 

Francois.  Yes,  M.  le  Sons-prefet;  likewise  the 
Marquise  de  Loudan  and  Mme.  Arriego,  but  these 
ladies  are  at  present  in  Paris,  following  M.  Bellac's 
course — with  Mile.  Suzanne  de  Villiers. 

Paul.     There  are  no  other  guests  here? 

Francois.  There  is  Madame  la  duchesse  de 
Reville,  Madame's  aunt. 

Paul.  I  don't  refer  to  the  Duchess  nor  to  Miss 
Watson ;  nor  to  Mile,  de  Villiers :  they  are  the 
family !     I  mean  guests,  like  ourselves. 

Francois.  No,  M.  le  Sous-prefet,  there  are  no 
others. 

Paul.    And  no  one  else  is  expected? 

Francois.  No  one?  Oh,  yes,  M.  le  Sous-prefet; 
M.  Roger,  the  son  of  Mme.  la  Comtesse  has  just 
arrived  to-day.  from  his  scientific  investigations  in 
the  Orient.  He  is  expected  any  moment — zAh,  an( 
then  ]\1.  Bellac,  the  professor,  who  is  to  spend  a 
few  days  here  when  his  lecture  course  is  over — at 
least  we  hope  so. 

Paul.  {Aside)  Ah,  that's  why  there  are  so 
many  ladies ! — Very  well,  thank  you. 

Francois.  Then  M.  le  Sous-prefet  will  be  good 
enough  to  wait  ? 

Paul.  Yes,  and  tell  Mme.  la  Comtesse  not  to 
hurry.  (Francois  goes  out)  Whew!  You  gave 
me  a  turn  with  that  music !  But  you  got  out  of  it 
beautifully,  changing  Lecoccj  to  Beethoven!  Rather 
good, that ! 

Jeanne.    Silly,  am  I  not? 

Paul.  I  know  better  nov,' !  We  have  still  five 
minutes;  I'll  tell  you  a  little  about  these  people: 
it's  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 

Jeanne.     Oh,  never  mind! 

Paul.  Come,  Jeanne,  five  minues !  You  must 
know  something  about  them! 


10  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Jeanne.  After  each  "  something  "  you  must  kiss 
me! 

Paul.  All  right  then ;  what  a  child  you  are !  I 
won't  be  long:  mother,  son,  friend,  and  guest, — 
everyone  of  them  very  serious ! 

Jeanne.    How  amusing  that  will  be ! 

Paul.  Don't  worry,  there  are  two  who  are  not 
so  serious.     I  have  kept  them  for  the  last. 

Jeanne.  One  moment,  please,  pay  me  first! 
{She  counts  on  her  fingers)  Madame  de  Ceran, 
one;  her  son  Roger,  two;  Miss  Lucy,  three;  the 
two  Saint-Reault ;  one  Bellac,  one  Loudan  and  one 
Arriego,  that  makes  eight !  {She  puts  her  cheek 
tip  to  be  kissed) 

Paul.    Eight  what? 

Jeanne.    Eight  '*  somethings  " — pay. 

Paul.  PVhat  a  child!  There,  there,  there!  {He 
kisses  her) 

Jeanne.     Not  so  fast:  retail,  if  you  please. 

Paul.  {After  having  kissed  her  more  slowly) 
There,  does  that  satisfy  you? 

Jeanne.  For  the  present.  Now,  let's  have  the 
two  who  are  not  serious ! 

Paul.  First,  the  Duchess  de  Reville,  the  heredi- 
tary aunt,  a  handsome  old  lady  who  was  a  beauty 
in  her  day 

Jeanne.     {Qnestioningly)  Hmm? 

Paul.  So  they  say !  A  bit  brusque  and  direct — 
but  an  excellent  lady  and  very  sensible. — As  you'll 
see.  But  last  and  best,  Suzanne  de  Villiers !  She 
is  not  at  all  serious — it's  a  fault  with  her. 

Jeanne.    At  last,  somebody  who's  frivolous. 

Paul.  Girl  of  eighteen,  a  tom-boy,  chatter-box, 
free  with  her  tongue  and  her  manners — with  a  life- 
history  that  reads  like  a  novel. 

Jeanne.    Umm!    Lovely,  let's  hear  it ! 

Paul.     She's  the  daughter  of  a  certain  widow — 

Jeanne.     Yes? 

Paul.     Well?     Daughter  of  a  widow — and  that 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  Ii 

ass  Georges  de  Villiers,  another  nephew  of  the 
Duchess;   she  adored  him.     An  illegitimate  child. 

Jeanne.     Illegitimate?     How  lovely! 

Paul.  The  mother  and  father  are  dead.  The 
child  was  left  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  twelve  with 
a  princely  heritage  and  an  education  to  match. 
Georges  taught  her  Javanese.  The  Duchess,  who 
adores  her,  brought  her  into  the  home  of  Madame 
de  Ceran,  who  detests  her,  and  ga\e  her  Roger 
for  a  tutor.  They  tried  their  best  to  keep  her  in 
a  convent,  but  she  ran  away  twice ;  they  sent  her 
back  a  third  time  and — here  she  is  again  1  Imagine 
that  state  of  affairs!  And  that's  the  end  of  the 
story — good,  isn't  it? 

Jeanne.  So  good  that  you  needn't  pay  m-e  the 
two  kisses  you  owe  me. — 

Paul.    (Disappointed)      Ohh ! 

Jeanne.     But  I'll  pay  you!     (She  kisses  him) 

Paul.  Silly!  (The  door  at  the  back  opens) 
Oh!  Saint-Reault  and  Madame  de  Ceran!  No,  she 
didn't   see  us.     Now — ahem — ready ! 

(Enter  Mme.  de  Ceran  and  Saint-Reault. 
They  pause  in  the  doorway,  not  seeing  Paul 
and  Jeanne.) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  No,  no,  no  my  friend,  not  the 
first  poll!  Listen  to  me,  15-8-15  the  first  poll — 
There  was  a  secret  ballot  on  that  one  and  there- 
fore on  the  second  poll :  it's  very  simple ! 

Saint-Reault.  Simple?  Simple?  Now  the 
second  poll,  since  I  have  only  four  votes  on  the 
second  poll,  with  our  nine  votes  on  the  first  poll — 
that  leaves  us  only  thirteen  on  the  second ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  And  our  seven  on  the  first — 
that  makes  twenty  on  the  second!     Don't  you  see? 

Saint-Reault.   {Enlightened)     Ahhh! 

Paul.   (To  Jeanne)     Very  simple! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  1  repeat,  beware  of  Dalibert 
and  his  Liberals.    At  present  the  Academy  is  Liberal 


12  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

— at  present — at  present!     {they  come  doivn-stage, 
talking ) 

Saint-Reault.  Isn't  Revel  also  the  leader  of 
the  New  School  ? 

Mme.    de   Ceran.    {Looking   at   him)      Ohh ! 
Revel  isn't  dead  yet,  is  he? 

Saint-Reault.    Oh,  no ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    He  isn't  ill? 

Saint-Reault.  {Slightly  embarrassed)  Oh, 
he's  ahvays  in  poor  health. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Well  then? 

Saint-Reault.  We  must  always  be  prepared, 
mustn't  we? — I'll  keep  my  eyes  open. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Aside)  There's  something  at 
the  bottom  of  all  this !  {Seeing  Raymond,  and 
going  toward  him)  Ah,  my  dear  Monsieur  Ray- 
mond, I  was  forgetting  all  about  you ;  pardon  me ! 

Paul.  My  dear  Countess — {Presenting  Jeanne) 
Madame  Paul  Raymond ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  You  are  most  welcome  here, 
Madame !  Consider  yourself  in  the  home  of  a 
friend.  {Presenting  them  to  Saint-Reault) 
Monsieur  Paul  Raymond,  Sub-prefect  of  Agenis, 
Madame  Paul  Raymond,  Monsieur  le  Baron  Erlel 
de  Saint-Reault. 

Paul.  I  am  especially  happy  to  make  your 
acquaintance  since,  as  a  young  man  it  was  my 
privilege  to  know  your  illustrious  father.  '{Aside) 
He  stuck  me  on  my  final  examinations ! 

Saint-Reault.  {Bozving)  What  a  pleasant 
coincidence,  M.  le  Prefet ! 

Paul.     Especially  pleasant  for  me,  M.  le  Baron! 

(Saint-Reault  goes  to  the  table  and  writes.) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  You  will  find  my  house  a 
trifle  austere  for  a  person  of  your  youth,  Madame. 
You  have  only  your  husband  to  blame  if  your  stay 
here — it  has  its  moments  of  monotony,  but  you  may 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  13 

console  yourself  with  the  thought  that  resignation 
means  obedience,  and  that  in  coming  here  you  had 
no  choice. 

Jeanne.  {Gravely)  As  regards  what,  Mme.  la 
Comtesse,  "  To  be  free  is  not  to  do  what  one  wishes, 
but  what  one  judges  to  be  best  " — as  the  philoso- 
pher Joubert  has  said. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Looking  approvingly  at  Paul) 
That  is  quite  reassuring,  my  dear.  But  I  think  you 
will  find  that  no  matter  how  intellectual  our  circle 
may  be,  it  is  not  lacking  in  esprit.  Indeed  this 
very  evening  you  will  find  the  soiree  particularly 
interesting.  Monsieur  de  Saint-Reault  has  been 
kind  enough  to  offer  to  read  to  us  from  his  un- 
published Vv'ork  on  Rama-Ravana  and  the  Sanscrit 
Legends. 

Paul.     Really!     Oh,  Jeanne! 

Jeanne.     How  fortunate  we  are! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  After  which  I  believe  I  can 
promise  you  something  from  Monsieur  Bellac. 

Jeanne.     The  Professor? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Do  you  know  him? 

Jeanne.  What  woman  doesn't?  How  delight- 
ful that  will  be  1 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  An  informal  talk — ad  usum 
tmindi — a  few  words,  gems  of  wisdom ;  and  finally, 
the  reading  of  an  unpublished  play. 

Paul.     Oh!     In  verse? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  The  first  work  of  a  young 
man — an  unknown  poet,  who  is  to  be  introduced  to 
me  this  evening  and  whose  play  has  just  been  ac- 
cepted by  the  Theatre-Frangais. 

Paul.  How  fortunate  we  are  to  be  able  to  enjoy 
am.ong  these  charming  people  another  of  these 
wonderful  opportunities  that  one  finds  nowhere  ex- 
cept beneath  your  roof. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Doesn't  this  literary  atmos- 
phere frighten  you,  Madame?  Your  charms  will 
be  wasted  at  a  soiree  like  this. 


14  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Jeanne.  (Seriously)  "  What  appears  a  waste 
to  the  vulgar,  is  often  a  gain  " — as  M.  de  Tocqe- 
ville  has  said. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Lookiiiii  at  licr  hi  ostoiishmcnt, 
aside  to  Paul)  She  is  charming'.  (Saint-Reault 
rises,  a  fid  goes  tozcard  tJic  door)  Saint-Reault 
where  are  you  going? 

Saint-Reault.  (As  lie  goes  out)  To  the  sta- 
tion— a  telegram — Excuse  me — EH  be  back  in  ten 
minutes.     {He  goes  out) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  There  is  certainly  something  at 
the  bottom  of  all  this !  (She  looks  among  the  papers 
on  tJie  table — to  Jeanne  and  Paul)  I  beg  your 
pardon!  (SJie  rings,  afid  after  a  moment  Francois 
appears)     The  papers? 

Francois.  M.  de  Saint-Reault  took  them  away 
this  morning.     They  are  in  his  room. 

Paul.  {Drazi'ing  Le  Journal  Amusant  from  Jiis 
poeket)     If  you  wish  the 

Je.\mne.  (Quickly  checking  him  and  at  the  same 
ti)}ie  producing  the  Journal  des  Debats"^  from  her 
pocket  afid  offering  it  to  Mme.  de  Ceran)  This  is 
to-day's  paper.  Countess. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  With  pleasure — I  am  curious 
about — please  pardon  me  again!  (She  opens  tJie 
paper  and  reads) 

Paul.  (To  Jiis  n'ife)  Bravo!  Keep  it  up !  The 
Joubert   was   excellent   and   the   de   Tocqueville — I 


say  I 


Ieanne.    It  wasn't  de  Tocqueville. — it  was  /. 

Paul.     Oh ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Reading)  "  Revel  very  ill." — 
So.  just  what  I  thought.  He  isn't  losing  much  time, 
Saint-Reault!  {Handing  the  paper  to  Paul)  I 
found  out  what  I  wanted  to  know,  thank  you.  But 
I  shan't  keep  you,  you  shall  be  shown  to  your  rooms 
We  dine  sharp  at  six :  }0u  know  tlie  Duchess  is 

*The  Journal  AmimDit  is  a  coaiii*.  paner.  the  Jovniai  des  Diltats  Is 
a  very  old  ami  conservation  ovu^an.  -L'r. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  15 

very  punctual.  At  four  tea  is  served ;  at  five  we 
take  a  stroll  and  at  six  have  dinner.  (The  clock 
strikes  four)  Ah,  four  already,  and  here  she  is! 
(The  Duchess  enters,  follozved  by  Francois,  who 
brings  her  chair  and  her  work-basket.  A  maid 
brings  tea.  The  Ducni:ss  sits  in  the  chair  placed 
for  her)     My  dear  Aunt,  allow  me  to  present 

Duchess.  (Settling  herself)  Wait  a  minute — 
wait  a  minute.  There!  Present  whom? — (She 
looks  through  her  lorgnette)  It  isn't  Raymond 
that  you  want  to  present,  is  it?  I've  known  him 
for  many  a  day. 

Paul.  (Advancing  with  Jeanne)  No,  Duchess, 
but  Madame  Paul  Raymond,  his  wife, — if  you 
please ! 

Duchess.  (Gadng  at  Jeanne,  zvho  bows)  She's 
pretty — Very  pretty !  With  my  Suzanne,  and 
f.Aicy,  despite  her  glasses,  that  makes  three  pretty 
women  in  my  house — And  heaven  knows  that's 
not  too  many — (She  drinks)  And  how  on  earth 
did  a  charming  girl  like  you  happen  to  many  that 
awful  Republican? 

I^AUL.  (Chaffingly)  Oh,  Duchess,  I  a  Repub- 
lican ! 

Duchess.  Well,  you  were  one,  at  least!  (She 
drinks  again) 

Paul.  Oh,  well,  like  everyone  else,  when  I  was 
little.  That  is  the  measles  of  politics,  Duchess, 
everybody  has  to  have  it. 

Duchess.  (Laughing)  Ah,  oh,  ah!  the  measles. 
Isn't  he  funny!  (To  Jeanne)  And  you,  my  dear, 
you  like  a  joke  once  in  a  while,  too? 

Jeanne.  Oh,  Duchess,  I  have  no  objection  to  a 
little  frivolity — in  moderation. 

Duchess.  That  isn't  very  frivolous,  but  it's  bet- 
ter than  nothing — so  much  the  worse — I  like  a  little 
frivolity  myself,  especially  in  a  person  of  your  age. 
(To  the  maid)  Here,  take  this  away.  (She  hands 
her  cup  to  the  maid) 


i6  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {To  the  maid)  Will  you  show 
Madame  Raymond  to  her  room.  Mademoiselle? 
(To  Jeanne)  Your  room  is  this  way,  just  next  to 
mine 

Jeanne.  Thank  you,  madame.  {To  Paul) 
Come,  dear. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Oh,  no,  I  have  put  your  hus- 
band over  there  on  the  other  side,  among  the 
workers :  my  son,  the  Count  and  Monsieur  Bellac, 
in  the  Pavillion,  which  we  call — a  little  pretentiously 
perhaps — the  Pavillion  of  the  Muses.  {To  Paul) 
Frangois  will  show  you  the  way.  I  thought  you 
would  be  able  to  work  better  there. 

Paul.  Admirable  arrangement,  Countess;  I 
thank  you.     {jEA'!sii<iE  pinches  him)     Ouch! 

Jeanne.  {Sweetly)     Go,  my  dear. 

Paul.  {Aside  to  her)  You'll  come  at  least  and 
let  me  unpack  my  trunks  ? 

Jeanne.    How  can  I? 

Paul.    Through  the  upper  corridor. 

Duchess.  {To  Mme.  de  Ceran)  If  you  thnk 
it  pleases  those  two  to  separate  them  like^  that 

Jeanne.  {Aside)     I've  gone  too  far! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {To  Jeanne)  Aren't  you 
pleased  with  this  arrangement? 

Jeanne.  Perfectly,  Madame  la  Comtesse;  and 
you  know  better  than  anyone  else  quid  deceat,  quid 
non.     {She  boius) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {To  Paul)  She  is  perfectly 
charming ! 

{They  go  out;  Paul  right,  Jeanne  left.) 

Duchess.    {Seated  near   the   table   at   the   left, 
I     working  at  her  fancy-zvork)     Ah,  she  knows  Latin ! 
She  ought  to  be  congenial  to  the  company ! 
Mme.  de  Ceran.    You  know  Revel  is  very  ill. 
Duchess.      He   is   never   anything  else, — what's 
that  to  me? 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  17 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Sitting  down)  What  do  you 
mean,  Aunt?  Revel  is  a  second  Saint-Reault,  He 
holds  at  least  fifteen  positions:  leader  of  the  New 
School  for  instance,  a  position  which  leads  to  any 
number  of  others!  Just  the  thing  for  Roger.  He 
returns  to-day,  and  I've  asked  the  Minister's  sec- 
retary to  dinner  this  evening,  you  know. 

Duchess.    Yes,  a  nev/  one:  Toulonnier. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  take  away  his  position  from 
him  to-night. 

Duchess.  So  you  want  to  make  your  son  the 
leader  of  a  school? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  It'll  be  another  stepping-stone, 
you  know.  Aunt. 

Duchess.  You  have  brought  him  up  to  be  a 
mere  chess  pawn,  haven't  you? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  have  made  of  him  a  serious 
minded  man,  Aunt. 

Duchess.  Yes,  I  should  think  so!  A  man  of 
twenty-eight,  who  has  never — done  a  foolish  thing 
in  his  life,  I'll  v/ager !    It's  a  perfect  shame! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  At  thirty  he  will  enter  the  In- 
stitute, and  at  thirty-five,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies. 

Duchess.  So  you  want  to  begin  again  with 
your  son,  and  do  with  him  as  you  did  vvith  his 
father  ? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Did  I  make  so  miserable  a 
failure  of  him? 

Duchess.  I  say  nothing  about  your  husband :  a 
dry-as-dust     creature,     with     a     mediocre     intelli- 


gence- 


Mme.  de  Ceran.    Aunt! 

Duchess.     Of  course,  your  husband  was  a  fool! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Duchess ! 

Duchess.  A  fool  who  liappened  to  know  how  to 
behave  himself!  You  forced  him  into  politics. 
you'll  admit  that.  And  then,  all  you  could  make  of 
him  was  Minister  of  Agriculture  and  Commerce. 
That  isn't  much  to  boast   about.     But  enough   of 


i8  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

him ;  Roger's  another  matter :  he  has  brains  and 
spirit  enough — or  will  have,  God  willing — Or  he's 
no  nephew  of  mine.  That  never  occurred  to  you, 
did  it? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     I  am  thinking  of  his  career. 

Duchess.    And  his  happiness? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    I  liave  thought  of  that,  too. 

Duchess.  Ah,  3'es!  Lucy,  eh?  They  corres- 
pond, I  know^  that.  That's  fine  !  A  young  girl  who 
wears  glasses  and  has  a  neck  like  a — !  And  you 
call  that  thinking  of  his  happiness ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Duchess,  you  are  incorrigible! 

Duchess.  A  sort  of  meteorite,  who  fell  among 
us,  intending  to  stop  two  weeks,  and  has  been  here 
two  years :  a  blue-stocking  who  writes  letters  to 
scholars  and  translates  Schopenhauer ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  A  rich,  intellectual,  highly- 
educated  and  well-born  orphan,  niece  of  the  Lord- 
Chancellor,  who  recommended  her :  she  would  be 
a  splendid  wife  for  Roger,  and 

Duchess.  That  English  ice-berg?!  Brrrr! 
Merely  to  kiss  her  would  freeze  the  nose  off  his 
face !  But  you're  on  a  false  scent.  In  the  first 
place  Bellac  has  his  eye  on  her : — yes,  the  Professor ! 
He's  asked  me  too  many  questions  about  her  to 
leave  any  doubt  in  my  mind.  And  what  is  more, 
she  seems  to  be  fond  of  him. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Lucy?  -- 

DucPiEss.  Yes,  Lucy, — like  all  the  rest  of  you! 
You're  all  mad  over  him.  I  know  more  about  this 
than  you  do. — No,  no !  Lucy  is  not  the  woman 
for  your  son ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  know  your  schemes :  Suzanne 
is  the  woman ! 

Duchess.  I  don't  deny  it.  I  have  brought 
Suzanne  here  for  that  very  purpose.  I  arrang-xl 
that  he  should  be  her  tutor  and  her  master,  so  to 
speak,  in  order  that  he  might  marry  her, — aid 
marry  her  he  shall ! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  19 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  You  have  counted  without  me, 
Duchess ;  I  shall  never  consent. 

Duchess.     And  why  not?     A  girl  who 

Mme.  de  Cerax.  Is  of  questionable  origin,  ques- 
tionable attraction,  without  education,  and  no  man- 
ners. 

Duchess.  (Bursting  into  Imtghtcr)  My  living 
image  at  her  age ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Without  f ortur.t; !  Without 
family ! 

Duchess.  Without  family?  The  daughter  of 
my  poor  Georges?  My  handsome,  good,  kind 
Georges! — And  she's  your  cousin  after  all! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    A  natural  child! 

DucHE.ss.  Natural?  Aren't  all  children  natural? 
You  amuse  me !  She's  been  legally  recognised ! 
\vx\  good  heavens,  when  the  devil's  put  his  fin- 
ger in  the  pie  why  shouldn't  the  rest  of  us?  Me, 
too? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  The  devil  has  put  his  finger  in 
the  pie,  but  not  the  way  you  think.  You  are  on  the 
false  .scent. 

Duchess.  Oh,  the  Professor !  Yes,  Bellac. 
You  told  me  that.  You  think  no  vvoman  can  follow 
his  lectures  without  failing  in  love  with  him? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  But  Suzanne  hasn't  missed  a 
single  lecture.  Aunt,  and  she  takes  notes  and  cor- 
rects them  and  copies  them — I  tell  you  Suzanne  is 
in  earnest.  And  v^^hile  he  is  speaking  she  never 
takes  her  eyes  off  him ;  she  drinks  in  every  word. 
And  you  think  that  is  all  for  the  sake  of  science! 
Nonsense,  it  isn't  the  science  she  loves,  it's  the 
scientist.  That  is  as  plain  as  day.  You  have  only 
to  watch  her  when  she's  with  Lucy.  She  is  fearfully 
jealous.  And  this  recently  acquired  coquetry  in  a 
girl  of  her  disposition — !  She  sighs,  sulks,  blushes, 
turns  pale,  laughs,  cries 

Duchess.  April  showers !  She's  just  coming 
into  bloom.    She's  bored,  poor  child ! 


20  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Here? 

Duchess.  Here?  Do  you  think  it's  amusing 
here?  Do  you  suppose  that  if  I  were  eighteen,  I 
should  h-t  here,  among  all  your  old  ladies  and  your 
old  gentlemen?  I  should  say  not!  I'd  associate 
with  young  people  all  the  time ;  the  younger  the 
better,  the  handsomer  the  better,  the  more  admirers 
I  had  the  better !  There  are  only  two  things  that 
women  never  grow  weary  of :  loving  and  being 
loved !  And  the  older  I  grow  the  more  I  realize 
that  there  is  no  other  happiness  in  the  world! 

TvIme.  de  Ckran.  There  are  more  serious  things 
than  that  in  life,  Duchess. 

Duchess.  More  serious  than  love?  Nonsense! 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  when  that  is  gone,  there 
is  any  other  happiness  left?  When  we  are  old,  we 
have  false  pleasures,  just  as  we  have  false  teeth, 
but  there  is  only  one  true  happiness,  and  that  is 
love,  love ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Oh,  Aunt,  you  are  too  ro- 
mantic ! 

Duchess.  A  fault  of  my  years!  Women  find 
romance  but  twice  in  their  lives :  at  sixteen  in  their 
own  hearts,  at  sixty  in  the  hearts  of  others.  Well, 
you  want  your  son  to  marry  Lucy ;  I  want  him  to 
marry  Suzanne.  You  say  Suzanne  is  in  love  with 
Bellac;  I  say,  Lucy.  Perhaps  we  are  both  wrong; 
it  is  for  Roger  to  decide. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    How? 

Duchess.  I  shall  explain  the  whole  situation  to 
him  the  moment  he  arrives. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Do  you  intend ? 

Duchess.  He  is  her  tutor!  He  must  know. 
{Aside)     That  will  prick  him  up  a  bit;  he  needs  it! 

(Enter  Lucy.) 

Lucy.  ( Who  wears  a  low-cut  evening  gown,  with 
a  cloak)     I  believe  your  son  has  arrived,  Madame. 
Mme.  de  Ceran.    The  Count! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  21 

Duchess.    Roger! 

Lucy.    His  carriage  has  just  come  into  the  court. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    At  last ! 

Duchess.     Were  you  afraid  he  wouldn't  return? 

Mme.  de  Cerax.  I  feared  he  would  not  return 
in  time.     I  was  anxious  about  that  place  for  him. 

Lucy.  Oh,  he  wrote  me  this  morning  that  he 
would  return  to-day,  Thursday. 

Duchess.  And  you  missed  one  of  the  Profes- 
sor's lectures  in  order  to  see  him  that  much  sooner. 
Hm,  that's  lovelv ! 

Lucy.     That  v.a:~n't  the  reason,  ]Madame. 

Duchess.  (Aside  to  Mme.  de  Cerax)  You 
see? — Xo?     Vv'hy  then? 

Lucy.  Xo,  I  was  looking  for — I — it  was  another 
matter. 

Duchess.  I  don't  suppose  it  is  for  that  Schop- 
enhauer gentleman  you  are  all  dressed  up  like  that, 
is  it? 

Lucy.  Is  there  not  to  be  company  this  evening, 
^Madame  ? 

Duchess.  {Aside  to  2^1  me.  de  Cerax j  Bellac, 
that's  as  plain  as  day!  {To  Lucy)  Let  me  con- 
gratulate you,  then.  I  have  nothmg  to  complain  of, 
except  those  frightful  glasses.  Why  do  you  wear 
such  awful  things  ? 

Lucy.  Because  I  cannot  see  without  them, 
Madame. 

Duchess.  A  nice  reason!  {Aside)  Isn't  she 
practical  I  I  detest  practical  people !  She'll  pass, 
she's  not  as  thin  as  I  thought  she  was !  These 
English  occasionally  disappoint  one  pleasantly! 

Mme.  de  Cerax.     Ah,  here's  my  son! 

(  Enter  Roger.) 

Roger.  Mother!  Mother!  How  good  it  is  to 
see  you  again  ! 

>Ime.  de  Cerax.  How  good  it  is  to  see  you,  my 
dear!      (She  holds  out  her  hand,  H'hich  he  kisses) 


22  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Roger.  What  a  long  while  it  is  since  I've  seen 
you! — Once  more!     {He  kisses  her  hand  again) 

Duchess.  {Aside)  That  embrace  wouldn't 
smother  anyone ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     The  Duchess,  my  dear! 

Roger.     {Approaching  the  Duchess)     Duchess! 

Duchess.    Call  me  Aunt,  and  give  me  a  kiss ! 

Roger.  My  dear  Aunt !  {He  starts  to  kiss  her 
hand) 

Duchess.  No!  No!  On  the  cheek!  You  must 
kiss  me  on  the  cheek !  That  is  one  of  the  privileges 
of  age — Look  at  him  now !  Same  little  mannikin 
as  ever !  Oh,  you've  let  your  moustache  grow ; 
isn't  he  charming ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  hope,  Roger,  you  will  shave 
that  off! 

Roger.  Don't  let  it  disturb  you.  Mother,  I  shall 
do  it  at  once! — Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Lucy? 

Lucy.  How  do  you  do,  Roger?  {They  shake 
hands)     Have  you  had  a  pleasant  trip? 

Roger.  Oh,  most  interesting.  Think  of  it,  an 
almost  unexplored  country,  a  veritable  paradise 
for  the  scholar,  the  poet,  and  the  artist — but  I  wrote 
you  all  about  that ! 

Duchess.  {Sitting  down)  Tell  me  about  the 
women  ? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Duchess! 

Roger.  {Astonished)  What  women  do  you 
mean.  Aunt? 

Duchess.  Why,  the  Oriental  women  they  say 
are  so  beautiful — Ah,  you  villain ! 

Roger.  Let  me  assure  you.  Aunt,  that  I  had  no 
time  to  investigate  that — detail ! 

Duchess.     {Indignantly)     Detail,  indeed! 
Roger.     {Smiling)     Besides,  the  Government  did 
not  send  me  there  for  that ! 

Duchess.    What  did  you  see,  then? 
Roger.    You  will  find  that  in  the  Revue  Archeo- 
logique. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  23 

Lucy.  Tomhs  of  Eastern  Asia;  isn't  that  the 
subject,  Roger? 

Roger.    Yes,  Lucy ;  now,  among  those  mounds — 

Lucy.     Ah,  the  mounds — those  Tumuli 

Duchess.  Come,  come,  you  can  chatter  when  you 
two  are  alone!  Tell  me,  aren't  you  tired?  Did  you 
just  arrive? 

Roger.  Oh,  no.  Aunt,  I've  been  in  Paris  since 
yesterday. 

Duchess.    Did  you  go  to  the  theater  last  night? 

Roger.    No,  I  went  at  once  to  see  the  Minister. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Good!  And  what  did  he  have 
to  say  to  you  ? 

Lucy.     I'll  leave  you  alone ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     You  needn't  go,  Lucy. 

Lucy.  Oh,  I  think  I  ought  to  go.  I  shall  return 
in  a  few  mintues.     I'll  see  you  later. 

Roger,  {Taking  her  hand)     Until  later,  Lucy. 

Duchess.  {Aside)  There's  a  grand  passion 
indeed ! 

(Lucy  goes  out.  Roger  accompanies  her  as  far  as 
door  to  the  left,  while  Mme.  de  Ceran  takes  her 
place  in  the  arm-chair,  at  the  other  side  of  the 
table. ) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Now,  let's  hear  what  the 
Minister  had  to  say  ! 

Duchess.  Ah,  yes!  Let's  hear.  We're  anxious 
to  know. 

Roger.  He  questioned  me  as  to  the  results  of  my 
trip  and  asked  me  to  submit  my  report  as  soon  as 
possible,  promising  me  a  reward  on  the  day  it  was 
handed  in.  You  can  guess  what  that  reward  will  be. 
{He  touches  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  as  if  to  show  the 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Officer?*  That's  all  very 
well,  but  I  have  something  better.     And  then? 

♦  The  second  of  the  three  degrees  in  the  Legion  of  Honor,  of  which 
he  Chevalier  is  the  lowest. 


24  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Roger.  Then  he  asked  me  to  convey  to  you  his 
kindest  regards,  and  begged  you  keep  him  in  mind 
when  that  law  came  up  for  consideration  by  the 
Senate. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  shall  keep  him  in  mind  if  he 
keeps  me  in  mind. — You  must  set  to  work  on  your 
report  at  once. 

Roger.     Immediately ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Did  you  leave  cards  for  the 
Speaker  of  the  House? 

Roger.  Yes,  this  morning,  and  for  General  de 
Briais  and  Mme.  de  Vielfond. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Good!  It  must  be  known  that 
you  have  returned.  I'll  have  a  paragraph  sent  to  the 
papers. — And  one  thing  more :  those  articles  you 
sent  back  from  the  East  were  very  good.  But  I 
noticed  with  astonishment  a  tendency  toward — what 
shall  I  say  ? — imagination,  "  fine  "  writing ;  descrip- 
tions, irrelevancies — even  poetry — (Reproachfully) 
Alfred  de  Musset,  my  son  I 

Duchess.  Yes,  the  article  was  most  interest- 
ing: you  must  be  more  careful. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  The  Duchess  is  joking,  my 
dear.  But  be  careful  of  the  poetry,  never  do  it 
again!  You  are  concerned  with  serious  subjects; 
you  must  be  serious  yourself. 

Roger.  But  I  had  no  idea.  Mother! — How  can 
you  tell  when  an  article  is  serious? 

Duchess.  (Holding  up  a  pamphlet)  When  the 
pages  aren't  cut ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Your  Aunt  exaggerates,  but 
take  my  advice,  no  more  poetry ! — And  now,  dinner 
at  six.  You  have  an  hour  to  work  on  your  report. 
I  shan't  keep  you  any  longer.  Go  to  work,  my 
dear. 

Duchess.  Just  a  moment !  Now  that  this  tender 
and  affecting  scene  is  over  let  us  talk  business,  if 
you  please.     What  about  Suzanne? 

Roger.     Oh,  the  dear  child!     Where  is  she? 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  25 

Duchess.  Attending  a  course  of  lectures  on 
Comparative  Literature. 

Roger.     Suzanne  ? ! 

Duchess.     Yes,  Bellac's  course. 

Roger.    Bellac,  who  is  he? 

Duchess.  One  of  this  winter's  crop!  The  sea- 
son's fad  in  scholars.  A  gallant  knight  from  the 
Normal  School,  who  makes  love  to  the  ladies,  is 
made  love  to  by  them — and  thereby  makes  a  com- 
fortable living.  The  Princess  Okolitch,  who  is  mad 
about  him,  like  all  the  old  ladies,  conceived  the  idea 
of  having  him  deliver  a  course  of  lectures  in  her 
salon,  with  literature  as  an  excuse,  and  gossip  as  a 
result.  It  appears  that  your  pupil,  having  seen  all 
these  grand  ladies  smitten  with  this  young,  ami- 
able, and  loquacious  genius,  has  followed  in  the 
footsteps  of  her  elders. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    It  is  no  use,  Duchess 

Duchess.  I  beg  your  pardon ;  Roger  is  her  tutor 
and  he  ought  to  know  everything! 

Roger.     But  what  does  all  this  m^ean.  Aunt? 

Duchess.  It  means  that  Suzanne  is  in  love  with 
this  gentleman;  now  do  you  understand? 

Roger.     Suzanne  !     That  child !     Nonsense ! 

Duchess.  It  doesn't  take  so  long  for  a  child  to 
change  into  a  woman,  you  know. 

Roger.     Suzanne ! 

Duchess.  Vv^eil,  at  least  that  is  wliat  your  mother 
Says. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  say, — that  that  young  lady  is 
openly  courting  favor  with  a  man  much  too  serious 
to  many  her,  but  gallant  enough  to  amuse  her, 
and  to  have  this  going  on  under  my  own  roof, — 
though  it  isn't  as  yet  scarjda'ous — is  decidedly  im- 
proper. 

Duchess.     (To  Roger)     Do  you  liear  that? 

Roger.  But,  Motlier,  you  surprise  me  !  Suzanne^" 
a  little  child  I  left  in  short  dresses,  climbing  trees, 
a  child  I  used  to  punish  with  extra  lessons,   who 


26  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

used  to  jump  on  my  knee  and  call  me  Daddy — 
Come,  come!  It  is  impossible!  such  demoraliza- 
tion at  her  age 

Duchess.  Demoralization?  Because  she  is  in 
love!  You  are  a  true  son  of  your  mother,  if  there 
ever  was  one !  At  "  her  age  !  "  You  ought  to  have 
seen  me  when  I  was  that  old !  There  was  a  hussar, 
in  a  blue  and  silver  uniform!  He  was  superb! 
His  brains  were  all  in  his  sword-hilt!  But  at  my 
age —  I  A  young  heart  is  like  a  new  land :  the  dis- 
coverer is  seldom  the  ruler.  Now  it  seems — this 
Bellac — oh,  it  doesn't  seem  possible,  and  yet — 
young  girls,  you  know — we  must  take  care! 
(Aside)  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  but  I'll  be 
on  my  guard ! — And  that  is  why  I  want  you  to 
do  me  the  favor  of  burying  your  Tumuli  and  giv- 
ing your  attention  to  her  and  her  alone. 

{Enter  Suzanne.) 

Suzanne.  {Stealing  up  behind  Roger,  puts  her 
hands  over  his  eyes)     Who  is  it? 

Roger.     (Rising)     Ehh? 

Suzanne.  (Stepping  in  front  of  him)  Here  I 
am! 

Roger.     (Surprised)     But, — Mademoiselle! 

Suzanne.  Naughty  man !  Not  to  recognize 
your  own  daughter! 

Roger.     Suzanne !  ^ 

Duchess.     (Aside)     He's  blushing! 

Suzanne.    Well,  aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Suzanne,  that's  not  quite  the 
thing 

Suzanne.     To  kiss  your  father?     The  idea! 

Duchess.  (To  Roger)  Kiss  her,  why  don't 
you! 

(Suzanne  and  Roger  kiss.) 
Suzanne.    How  happy  I  am!    Just  think,  I  had 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  27 

no  idea  you  were  coming  home  to-day !  Mme.  de 
Saint-Reault  told  me  just  now  at  the  lecture ;  so, 
without  saying  a  word — I  was  right  near  the  door — 
I  whisked  out  and  ran  to  the  station! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Alone? 

Suzanne.  Yes,  all  alone  !  Oh,  it  was  fun  !  The 
funniest  part — wait  till  I  tell  you ! — When  I  got  to 
the  ticket  office  1  found  I  didn't  have  a  sou,  and, 
what  do  you  think?  a  gentleman  who  was  buying 
his  ticket  offered  to  buy  one  for  me.  Oh,  he  was 
a  very  nice  young  man !  He  happened  to  be  going 
to  St.  Germain,  too,  and  when  he  offered  to  buy  my 
ticket,  another  man  offered,  too :  a  respectable-look- 
ing old  gentleman, — and  then  another — and  after 
him,  any  number  of  others,  who  were  standing 
there.  They  were  all  going  to  St.  Germain.  "  But, 
Mademoiselle,  I  beg  you — I  really  cannot  allow  you 
to — "  "  Allow  me — no,  me, — I  beg  you.  Mademoi- 
selle !  "  I  let  the  old  respectable  gentleman  buy  the 
ticket ;  I  did  it  for  the  sake  of  appearances. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    You  allowed  him  to ? 

Suzanne.  I  couldn't  very  well  stay  where  I 
was,  could  I? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     From  a  perfect  stranger? 

Suzanne.  But  he  was  such  a  respectable  old 
gentleman — !  And  he  was  very  nice  to  me!  He 
helped  me  into  the  train.  So  nice  of  him !  Of 
course,  all  the  rest  were,  too ;  they  all  got  into  the 
compartment  with  us. — And  it  was  so  jolly !  So 
kind!  They  offered  me  their  places,  ever}^  one! 
They  opened  the  window  for  me,  and  tlien  fell  all 
over  themselves  being  nice  to  me !  **  This  way 
Mademoiselle  I  Not  there,  you'll  be  in  the  sun !  " 
And  they  pulled  down  their  cuff's,  and  twirled  their 
moustaches,  and  bowed  and  scraped  as  if  I'd  been 
some  grand  lady — Oh,  it's  fun  to  go  by  yourself! 
And  the  respectable  old  gentleman  kept  talking  all 
the  time  about  his  immense  estates,  but  what  did  I 
care  about  that? 


28  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Why,  this  is  outrageous ! 

Suzanne.  But  the  funniest  thing  of  all  was 
when  we  arrived,  I  found  my  purse  in  my  pocket; 
I  paid  the  respectable  old  gentleman  for  the  ticket, 
made  a  pretty  curtsey  to  tlie  other  gentlemen,  and 
then  I  ran  off.  Oh,  you  should  have  seen  how  they 
all  looked  at  me!  (To  Roger)  Just  as  you  are 
now!    Why,  what's  the  matter?    Kiss  me  again! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (To  the  Duchess)  There's  an 
impropriety  that's  even  worse  than  the  rest ! 

Suzanne.    Impropriety ! 

Duchess.     You  see,  she's  perfectly  innocent! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  A  young  girl  traveling  alone 
in  a  traiii ! 

Suzanne.     Doesn't  Lucy  go  out  alone? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Lucy  is  not  a  girl  of  sixteen! 

Suzanne.  No,  she'll  never  see  twenty-four 
again ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Lucy  is  able  to  take  care  of 
herself. 

Suzanne.  Why,  because  of  those  glasses  of 
hers? 

Duchess.  (Laughing)  Now,  Suzanne — ! 
(Aside)     I  adore  that  girl! 

Mme.  Dt  Ceran.  Lucy  wasn't  expelled  from  the 
convent ! 

Suzanne.  That  isn't  fair,  and  you  know  it !  I 
used  to  be  so  bored ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Your  tutor  knows 

Suzanne.  But  he  doesn't  know  why — you'll  see 
if  it  wasn't  unfair.  When  I  used  to  get  bored  in 
class,  I  sat  near  the  door  leading  into  the  garden. 
Oh,  it  was  so  easy!  I  had  a  clever  plan!  V/hen 
everything  was  as  quiet  as  could  be,  I  shouted 
at  the  top  of  my  voice,  '*  Long  live  the  great  Vol- 
taire !  "  Sister  Seraphine  at  once  ordered  me  to  leave 
the  room.  It  was  perfectly  simple,  and  it  only  took 
a  moment.  One  day  when  the  sun  was  shining 
beautifully,  I  was  looking  out  of  the  window,  and 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  29 

all  at  once  I  shouted,  "  Long  live  Voltaire !  "  I 
listened,  there  was  no  answer.  I  shouted  again, 
'*  Voltaire !  "  Silence  again  !  Very  much  surprised, 
I  turned  around :  the  Mother  Superior  was  there : 
I  hadn't  heard  her  come  in !  Tableau !  But  she 
didn't  send  me  into  the  garden,  oh  no !  She  sent 
me  here !  So  much  the  worse  for  them !  I  had  had 
enough  of  that  convent  life. — I'm  a  woman  now! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Your  conduct  fails  to  reveal 
the  fact Mme.  de  Saint-Reault  must  be  very  anx- 
ious about  you. 

Suzanne.  Oh,  the  lecture  was  almost  over:  she 
will  be  here  in  a  moment,  with  M.  Bellac  and  the 
others.    Oh,  his  lecture  to-day ! 

Duchess.     (Looking  at  Roger)     Hm! 

Suzanne.  And  the  way  those  women  applauded! 
And  the  crowd !  And  what  wonderful  gowns  !  It 
was  like  a  wedding  at  Ste.  Clotilde!  It  was — 
(Throwing  a  kiss)  superb! 

Duchess.      (Looking  at  Roger)      Hm! 

Suzanne.  Superb !  You  ought  to  have  heard 
those  women !  "  Charming,  charming !  "  Madame 
de  Loudan  was  squeaking  like  a  Guinea-pig.  Ugh, 
ugh !    I  detest  that  woman ! 

Duchess.  (Looking  at  Roger)  Hm  1  (To 
Suzanne)  Are  those  the  notes  you  took  at  the 
lectures ! 

Suzanne.  Oh,  I  take  others  besides.  (To 
Roger)     You'll  see! 

Duchess.  (To  Roger,  picking  up  the  note-book 
from  the  table,  where  Suzanne  had  left  it  on  enter- 
ing) Well,  let's  see — (The  clock  strikes  five)  Oh, 
and  my  walk!  (Aside  to  Roger)  Now  you  under- 
stand Bellac's  role  in  this  matter? 

Roger.     No,  I 

Duchess.  Examine  it,  study  it, — it's  a  manu- 
script worth  your  while  diciphering;  that's  your 
profession. 

Roger.     I  don't  understand  anything  about  this.'^ 


30  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Duchess.  It  is  your  duty,  you  know,  as  her 
tutor. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Aside)  That's  a  waste  of 
time! 

Duchess.     (Aside,  looking  at  Roger)     That  has 
waked  him  up ! 
f        Suzanne.     (Aside,  looking  at  all  of  them)  What 
i    are  they  all  up  to  ? 

(The  Duchess  and  Mme.  de  Ceran  go  out.) 

Suzanne.  Why  do  you  stare  at  me — ?  Because 
I  went  out  alone — ?    Are  you  angry? 

Roger.  No,  Suzanne,  but  you  ought  to  know  bet- 
ter than  to 

Suzanne.     Are  you  angry  with  me?* 

Roger.    No,  only 

Suzanne.  Then  it's  because  you  consider  me 
a  woman  now,  is  it  ?  *  Do  you  ?  Tell  me,  I  want  so 
much  to  know! 

Roger.  Yes,  you  are  a  woman  now,  and  it  is 
for  that  very  reason  that  we  must  respect  the  con- 
ventions. 

Suzanne.  (Snuggling  up  to  him)  Scold  me,  I 
love  to  hear  you,  dear ! 

Roger.  (Gently  pushing  her  away)  There  now, 
stay  over  there. 

Suzanne.     So  you  don't  want  me  to  call  you 

"dear,"  either?! 

Roger.    It  would  be  better  not  to. 

Suzanne.    That  isn't  easy. 

Roger.  And  there  are  other  questions  of  pro- 
priety which  you  must  consider.  That  is  exactly 
what  I  was  objecting  to 

Suzanne.  Oh,  yes,  I  know,  I  have  no  manners. 
M.  Bellac  is  never  tired  of  telling  me  so! 

Roger„    Ah,  Monsieur ! 

*  She  uses  the  familiar  "  tu."— Tr. 
Again  she  reproaches  him  for  usin^  the  formul  "  fous*' 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  31 

Suzanne.  But  what  can  you  expect?  There  is 
no  help  for  it !  It's  not  my  fault,  I  tell  you,  it's 
not  my  fault.  It  is  not  so_easy  as  you  think ;  I  made 
a  vow  with  myself  that  when  you  came  back  you 
would  find  me  just  as  formal  as  Lucy,  that  I  would 
wear  m.yseif  out  learning! — Here  I've  been  study- 
ing six  months — and  then  all  of  a  sudden  you  ap- 
pear and,  whist — there  goes  six  months'  work  for 
nothing ! 

Roger.     (Reproachfully)     For  nothing? 

Suzanne.  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  youVe  come! 
Oh,  how  I  love  you !    I  adore  you  ! 

Roger.  Suzanne,  Suzanne !  I  beg  of  you  not  to 
use  words  that  you  cannot  possibly  understand. 

Suzanne.  What?  That  I  don't  understand?  I 
tell  you  I  adore — ore  you !  You,  you  funny  old 
thing,  don't  you  love  me,  too?  Why  are  you  so 
funny  ?    Do  you  love  me  better  than  Lucy  ? 

Roger.    Suzanne ! 

Suzanne.  Are  you  sure?  You're  not  going  to 
marry  her? 

Roger.     Suzanne ! 

Suzanne.    They  told  me  you  were. 

Roger.     Nonsense ! 

Suzanne.  Then  why  do  you  write  to  her? — 
Oh,  I  know ;  you've  written  twenty-seven  letters  to 
her — I've  counted  them,  twenty-seven ! 

Roger.    Those  were  nothing  but 

Suzanne.  And  one  more  this  morning.  Were 
they  all  "  nothing  buts  " — What  was  in  that  letter 
that  came  this  morning  ? 

Roger.  I  merely  wrote  that  I  should  arrive  on 
Thursday. 

Suzanne.  That  you  would  arrive  on  Thursday? 
Was  that  all,  really  ?  But  why  didn't  you  write  to 
me?    Then  I'd  have  been  the  first  to  see  you. 

Roger.     But  haven't  I  written  to  you,  often  ? 

Suzanne.  Often?  Ten  times.  And  then  noth- 
ing but  little   insignificant  notes  at  the  bottom  of 


32  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

someone  else's  letter — the  kind  you'd  write  to  a  baby. 
I'm  not  a  baby  any  longer :  I've  been  thinking  a  lot 
these  last  six  months;  I've  learned  a  heap  of  things. 

Roger.  What  have  you  learned?  (Suzanne 
leans  against  his  shoulder  and  cries)  Why, 
Suzanne,  what's  wrong? 

Suzanne.  (Wiping  her  eyes  and  trying  to  laugh) 
And  then  I've  worked — !  Oh,  how  I  worked! 
Piano,  that  horrid  piano — I'm  up  to  Schumann 
now,  that's  proper  enough,  isn't  it? 

Roger.    Oh ! 

Suzanne.     Shall  I  play  you  something  of  his? 

Roger.    Not  now,  later ! 

Suzanne.  All  right. — And  I've  learned  so 
much! 

Roger.  You  are  attending  Professor  Bellac's 
lectures,  aren't  you  ?    So  he's  taken  my  place ! 

Suzanne.  Yes,  he's  been  so  nice !  I  love  him, 
too. 

Roger.    Indeed ! 

Suzanne.    Are  you  jealous  of  him? 

Roger.    I  ? 

Suzanne.  Tell  me  if  you  are;  Til  understand. 
I'm  so  jealous!  But  why  should  you  be?  You're 
my  father,  aren't  you? 

Roger.    Oh,  your  father 

Suzanne.  What's  wrong?  Be  nice  to  me,  the 
way  you  used  to ! 

Roger.    The  way  I  used  to  ?    Oh,  no ! 

Suzanne.  Yes,  the  way  you  used  to!  (She  at- 
tempts to  embrace  him) 

Roger.    No,  no,  no,  Suzanne,  don't  do  that ! 

Suzanne.    Why  not? 

Roger.  Come  now,  that's  enough !  Run  away 
now!     (Sits  down  on  the  sofa) 

Suzanne.    I  like  you  that  way ! 

Roger.    Be  a  little  bit  reasonable. 

Suzanne.  Oh,  we've  had  enough  reasonableness 
for  to-day.     (She  ruffles  Jiis  hair,  laughing) 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  33 

Roger.  Run  away,  now !  A  big  girl  like 
you ! 

Suzanne.     {Jealously)    If  I  were  only  Lucy • 

Roger.    Now,  now  !    Please,  dear ! 

Suzanne.  There,  you  said  ''dear."  Forfeit! 
(She  sits  on  his  knee  and  kisses  him) 

Roger.    Again ! 

Suzanne.     All  right;  again!     {She  kisses  him) 

Roger.  {Repulsing  her  as  he  rises)  This  is  too 
much ! 

Suzanne.  I'm  an  awful  tease,  am  I  not?  Well, 
I'll  get  my  note-books  for  you :  they'll  calm  us 
down  a  little.  {She  stops  in  the  doorzi'ay  and  looks 
at  him)  Oh,  here  are  the  ladies  and  M.  Bellacl 
What !  Lucy  in  an  evening  gown  ?  Wait  one  mo- 
ment!      {She  runs  out) 

Roger.     {Agitated)     This  is  decidedly  too  much! 

{Enter  the  Duchess.) 

Duchess.    Well? 

Roger.    Well 

Duchess.     How  excited  you  look! 

Roger.  You  see,  she  was  so  affectionate — too 
affectionate ! 

Duchess.  Yes,  I  advise  you  to  complain !  Look 
what  I  have  found!  {She  takes  a  mounted  photo- 
graph from  betzveen  the  leaves  of  Suzanne's  note- 
book) 

Roger.     A  picture- 


Duchess.    Of  the  Professor,  yes 

Roger.    In  her  note-book. 

Duchess.    But  look  here 

Roger.    May  I ? 

The  Ladies.  (Outside)  What  a  lovely  lesson! 
Magnificent ! 

Duchess.  There's  the  beautiful  object!  Sur- 
rounded by  his  bodyguard ! 

{Enter   Bellac,    Madame   Arriego,    Madame  dk 


34  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

LouDAN,  Madame  de  Saint-Reault,  Madame 
DE  Ceran,  and  Lucy.) 

Mme.  de  Saint-Reault.  Superb!  Simply 
superb ! 

Bellac.    Oh,  spare  me,  Madame  de  Saint-Reault ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    Ideal!    I  call  it  ideal! 

Bellac.    Marquise ! 

Mme.  Arriego.  Beautiful!  It  stirred  me  to  the 
depths  of  my  being! 

Bellac.     Oh,  Madame  Arriego! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  Ladies,  there  is  only  one  thing 
to  say  about  it  all !  M.  Bellac  was  so  eloquent  that 
he  was  positively  dangerous !  But  then — isn't  he 
always  a  little  dangerous? 

Bellac.    Please,  Madame  de  Loudan ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  I'm  simply  mad  about  your 
genius !  Yes,  indeed,  mad !  And  about  you,  too ! 
Oh,  I  don't  hide  it.  I  tell  everyone  about  it! 
Brazenly !  You  are  one  of  the  gods  on  my  Olym- 
pus !    You  have  become  a  fetish  with  me ! 

Mme.  Arriego.  You  know,  I  have  his  autograph 
in  my  locket!     (Displays  locket)    There! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  (Shows  a  pen  which  she 
carries  in  the  bosom  of  her  gown)  And  I  carry  one 
of  his  pens! 

Duchess.     (Aside  to  Roger)     Silly  sheep! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  (To  Mme.  de  Ceran)  Ah 
Countess,  I  didn't  see  you  at  the  lecture  to  day? 

Mme.  de  Ceran,  (Introducing  Roger)  Here  is 
my  excuse  !    Ladies,  my  son ! 

Ladies.    Ah,  Count ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    The  exile  has  returned! 

Roger.     (Bowing)     Ladies! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Introduces  Bellac  to  her 
son)     Monsieur  Bellac, — Count  Roger  de  Ceran! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  I  see  that  your  excuse  was  a 
good  one — but  Lucy? 

Lucy.    I  was  busy  here. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  35 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  How  could  you  stay  away,  his 
Muse? 

Bellac.  (Gallantly)  Ah,  Marquise,  I  can  only 
say,  that  you  were  there ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  He  is  charming!  (To  Lucy) 
You  don't  know  what  you  missed. 

Lucy.    Oh,  I  know 

Mme.  Arriego.  No,  she  can  have  no  idea! — It 
was  a  burning  flame,  a  fire  of  passion! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  What  flowing  eloquence! 
What  delicacy  of  imagination ! 

Bellac.  With  such  an  audience,  who  could  not 
be  eloquent  ? ! 

Duchess.    And  what  was  the  subject  to-day? 

Ladies.    LOVE! 

Duchess.     (To  Roger)     Of  course! 

Mme.  Arriego.     So  poetic! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  And  so  scientific!  He  is 
half  psychologist,  half  dreamer;  he  plays  with  the 
scalpel  as  well  as  the  lyre !  It  was — there  was 
only  one  thing  I  couldn't  agree  with :  that  the 
basis  of  love  is  instinct. 

Bellac.     But,  Marquise,  I  was  speaking  of 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    Oh,  no,  no 

Bellac.     I  was  speaking  of  love  in  Nature! 

Mme.  DE  Loudan.  Instinct!  The  idea!  Ladies^ 
come,  we  must  defend  ourselves!  Help  me.  Come 
to  the  rescue,  Lucy ! 

Bellac.  She  will  not  help  you.  Marquise;  she 
agrees  with  me. 

Mme.  de  Saint-Reault.     Is  it  possible.  Lucy? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    Instinct? 

Mme.  Arriego.     In  love? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  That  would  be  robbing  the 
soul  of  its  most  precious  possession :  according  to 
you,  then,  Lucy,  nothing  is  good,  or  bad. 

Lucy.  (Coldly)  There  is  no  question  about 
good,  or  bad,  Madame,  it  is  merely  a  question  of  the 
existence  of  the  species. 


36  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Ladies.     (Protesting)     Oh! 

Duchess.  (Aside)  She's  prosaic  enough  about 
it! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  (Indignantly)  Why,  you're 
stripping  love  of  all  its  romance ! 

Lucy.     Hunter  and  Darwin 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  No  one  better  than  I  knows 
the  weaknesses  of  the  flesh.  Matter  dominates  and 
masters  us !  I  know  it,  T  feel  it !  But  leave  us  at 
least  the  psychic  refuge  of  pure  ecstasy ! 

Bellac.    But,  Marquise 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  Be  quiet,  you're  a  villain!  I 
will  not  deny  my  God ;  that  would  be  sacrilege — I'm 
very  ^ngry  with  you ! 

Duchess.     (Aside)     Little  fool! 

Bellac.  I  hope  we  shall  be  reconciled,  after  you 
read  my  book. 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  But  when  will  that  be?  The 
entire  world  is  waiting  for  that  book !  And  you 
don't  say  a  word  about  it !  You  won't  even  tell 
us  the  title ! 

Ladies.    Tell  us  the  title !    At  least  the  title ! 

Mme.  Arriego.    Lucy,  you  make  him  tell  us. 

Lucy.    Well,  what  is  the  title  ? 

Bellac.  (To  Lucy,  after  a/moment's  hesitation) 
"  Miscellanies." 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  Oh,  how  lovely !  ^But  when 
does  it  appear  ? 

Bellac.  I  am  hurrying  it  through  the  press,  and 
I  count  on  its  helping  me  to  the  honor  to  which  I 
aspire. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    To  which  you  aspire? 

Mme.  Arriego.     What  more  can  he  wish? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  What  more  can  the  child  of 
Fortune  wish? 

Bellac.  Poor  Revel  is  on  his  last  legs,  you  know. 
In  the  event  of  anything  happening  to  him,  I  have 
announced  myself  as  candidate  for  the  position  of 
director  of  the  New  School. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  37 

Duchess.    {To  Mme.  de  Ceran)    Number  three! 

Bellac.  Ladies,  if  Revel  should  die — which  God 
forbid ! — I  recommend  myself  to  your  good  graces, 
and  your  influence. 

Ladies.    You  may  count  on  us,  Bellac ! 

Bellac.  {Approaching  the  Duchess)  And  you. 
Duchess,  may  I  hope ? 

Duchess.  You  mustn't  ask  me  anything  before 
dinner.  The  weaknesses  of  the  flesh  "  dominates 
me,"  as  Madame  de  Loudan  says.  {The  clock 
strikes)  There,  you  have  only  fifteen  minutes  1 
Get  dressed  at  once,  and  we'll  talk  the  matter  over 
at  table. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  At  table?  But  M.  Toulonnier 
hasn't  arrived  yet,  Duchess. 

Duchess.  That  makes  no  difference  to  me.  We 
dine  sharp  at  six,  vvhether  he  is  here  or  not. 

Mi\iE.  de  Ceran.  Dine  without  him,  a  General 
Secretary  ? 

Duchess.    Oh,  under  the  Republic  ! 

{Enter   Suzanne^  zvith  her  notebooks  under  her 
arm;  she  puts  them  on  the  table,  right.) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  am  going  to  meet  him.  {To 
Bellac)  My  dear  Professor,  you  will  be  shown  to 
your  room.  {She  rings  and,  a  moment  later,  enter 
Francois) 

Bellac.  Pray  don't  trouble,  Countess,  I  have  the 
good  fortune  to  know  the  way.  {Aside  to  Lucy) 
Did  you  get  my  letter  ? 

Lucy.    Yes,  but 

(Bellac  makes  a  sign  for  her  to  he  silent,  hoivs  and 
goes  out,  right.) 

Mme.  de  Loudan.     And  now,  ladies,  let  us  ad- 
journ and  make  ourselves  beautiful ! 
Mme.  Arriego.    Come! 


38  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Come  with  me,  Lucy. 

Lucy.    With  pleasure,  Madame ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  In  that  gown?  Are  you  not 
afraid  of  the  seductive  charm  of  this  spring  evening, 
my  dear  ? 

Lucy.    Oh,  I  shan't  be  cold ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  You  are  a  true  daughter  of 
the  Land  of  Fogs !  I  am  very  much  afraid  of  the 
night  air ! 

(Madame  de  Loudan  goes  out  with  Madame  Ar- 
RiEGO,  left.  As  Lucy  starts  to  follow  Madame 
de  Ceran  into  the  garden,  she  is  intercepted  by 
Francois.) 

Francois.  I  still  can't  find  the  pink  paper, 
Mademoiselle. 

Suzanne.  (Picking  up  a  pink  paper  which  she 
has  knocked  off  the  table,  while  putting  her  note- 
books  on  it.  Aside)  A  pink  paper!  (She  looks ^t 
the  paper) 

Lucy.  Ah  yes,  the  letter  we  were  looking  for 
this  morning! 

Suzanne.  (Aside,  quickly  hiding  the  letter  be- 
hind her  back)  That  you  were  looking  for  this 
morning ! 

Lucy.  (As  she  is  leaving  the  room)  Never  mind 
looking  for  it,  now.  (She  goes  out  into  the  garden; 
Francois  follows  her)  ^ 

Suzanne.  (Looking  at  Lucy.  Enter  Roger) 
The  letter  this  morning ! 

(Enter  the  Duchess.) 

Duchess.  How's  this?  You're  not  ready  yet]* 
Nor  you?    What  are  you  doing  here? 

(Suzanne  looks  at  Roger  without  answering.) 

Roger.     (To  the  Duchess)     Ah,  these  are  the 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  39 

notebooks!  Give  them  to  me,  Suzanne.  {He  goes 
to  her,  she  hands  them  to  him,  looking  at  him  in 
silence)     What's  the  matter  with  her? 

Duchess.    Let  me  look  at  those  notebooks ! 

(Roger  goes  to  the  Duchess,  ivho  is  seated  left. 
Suzanne,  to  the  right  of  the  table,  tries  to  open 
the  paper  which  she  holds  in  her  left  hand, 
zvithout  being  seen.) 

Roger.  (Looking  at  Suzanne;  astonished) 
That's  strange ! 

Duchess.  {To  Roger,  draiving  him  toward  her) 
Come  here,  closer — my  eyes  are  bad 

Roger.  {Lowering  the  notebooks,  as  he  steals  a 
glance  at  Suzanne.  Suddenly  he  seizes  the 
Duchess  by  the  arm,  and  whispers)     Aunt! 

Duchess.  {To  Roger,  aside)  What's  the  matter 
now? 

Roger.  Look !  But  don't  turn  your  head !  She's 
trying  to  read  something !  A  letter,  you  see  1  She's 
trying  to  hide  it,  don't  you  see  1  . 

Duchess.    Yes!  ^ 

Suzanne.     {Who  has  opened  the  letter;  reading)  %       [j 

"  I  shall  arrive  Thursday."     {Astonished)     From  !x 

Roger!     The  one   Lucy  got  this  morning!      {She        ^ 
looks  at  the  letter)     But  why  is  it  written  that  way,     ^ 
without  any  signature?    {Continues  reading)   "This 
evening  at  ten ;  in  the  conservatory.     Say  you  have 
a  headache."    Ah ! 

Duchess.    What  can  it  be?    (Calling)  Suzanne! 

Suzanne.  (Surprised;  puts  the  letter  behind  her 
hack,  and  goes  toward  the  Duchess)     Yes,  Aunt? 

Duchess.    What  are  you  reading  there? 

Suzanne.    I,  Aunt?    Nothing. 

Duchess.     I  thought  that — come  here! 

Suzanne.  {Slipping  the  letter  under  the  hooks 
on  the  table,  as  she  goes  toward  the  Duchess)  Yes, 
Aunt? 


40  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Duchess.     (Aside)     This  is  curious! 

Suzanne.  (Near  the  Duchess)  What  is  it. 
Aunt? 

Duchess.     Get  my  mantle  for  me. 

Suzanne.     (Hesitating)     But 

Duchess.    You  don't  care  to? 

Suzanne.     Oh,  certainly,  Aunt! 

Duchess.  It's  in  my  room;  hurry!  (Suzanne 
goes  out.     To  Roger)     Quick!    On  the  table! 

Roger.     What  ? 

Duchess.  The  letter!  She's  hidden  it!  I  saw 
her  do  it ! 

Roger.  Hidden  it?  (He  goes  to  the  table  and 
looks  for  tJie  letter) 

Duchess.  At  the  corner,  there !  Under  the  black 
book.     Don't  you  see  anything? 

Roger.  No — oh,  yes  ! — a  pink  paper.  (He  takes 
the  letter  and  brings  it  to  the  Duchess,  reading  it 
as  he  walks)     Oh! 

Duchess.    What  is  it? 

Roger.  (Reading)  "  I  shall  arrive  Thursday." 
From  Bellac ! 

Duchess.  (Snatching  the  letter  from  him  and 
reading  it)  From — ?  But  it  isn't  signed.  And 
the  handwritmg ? 

Roger.  Yes,  disguised.  Oh,  he's  a  crafty  one! 
But  ''  I  shall  arrive  Thursday  "  applies  to  me  as 
well  as  to  him ! 

Duchess.  (Reading)  "  This  evening  at  ten  in 
the  conservatory.  Say  you  have  a  headache."  A 
rendezvous!  (Giving  him  the  letter)  Quick;  put  it 
back,  I  hear  her  coming ! 

Roger.  (Agitated)  All  right.  (Puts  letter  back 
in  place) 

Duchess.     Come  now. 

Roger.  Very  well. 

Duchess.  Hurry  up!  (Roger  resitines  his  posi- 
tion by  the  side  of  the  Duchess)  And  be  calm! 
Here  she  is.     (Suzanne  re-enters.    The  Duchess 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  41 

turns  over  the  leaves  in  the  note-book)  Well,  these 
are  very  good,  very  good ! 

Suzanne.     Here's  your  mantle,  Aunt. 

Duchess.  Thank  you,  dear.  (Aside  to  Roger) 
Speak  up. 

(Suzanne  goes  to  the  table,  takes  the  letter,  glances 
through  it,  turning  away  as  before.) 

Roger.  (Agitated)  There  are — well — er — cer- 
tain— you  have  made  wonderful  progress — er — I  am 
astonished — (Aside  to  Duchess,  poiniing  to 
Suzanne)     Aunt! 

Duchess.  (Aside)  Yes,  she's  picked  it  up 
again;  I  saw  her.  (The  dinner-gong  sounds)  The 
second  bell !  Hurry  and  get  dressed,  Suzanne ! 
You'll  never  be  ready  in  time. 

Suzanne.  (Aside  as  she  looks  at  Roger)  A 
rendezvous !     With  Lucy  !     Oh  ! 

(She  goes  up  to  Roger  without  saying  a  word  and, 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eye,  takes  her  note- 
hooks  out  of  his  hand,  tears  them  and  throws 
the  pieces  angrily  to  the  ground ;  then  she  goes 
out.) 

Roger.  (Astonished ;  turning  to  the  Duchess) 
Aunt? 

Duchess.     A  rendezvous!! 

Roger.    With  Bellac !  1 

Duchess.    Nonsense! 

Roger.  (Falling  into  a  chair)  Who  could  have 
imagined  such  a  thing ! ! 

(Voices   heard    outside.      The    door   at    the    back 

opens. ) 

Duchess.  (Looking  out)  Ah,  here  comes  Tou- 
lonnier!  And  everybody,  and  dinner,  too!  Quick, 
go  and  dress !  It  will  calm  your  nerves ;  you're 
very  pale. 


42  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Roger.  Suzanne — !!  It's  not  possible!  {He 
goes  out) 

Duchess.     No,  it's  not  possible!     And  yet -! 

{Enter  Madame  de  Ceran,  Toulonnier,  Mon. 
and  Mme.  de  Saint-Reault  and,  a  moment 
later,  Lucy,  Madame  de  Loudan,  Madame 
Arriego,  with  Bellac  in  their  midst.) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Introducing  Toulonnier  to 
the  Duchess)     The  Secretary  General,  Aunt. 

Toulonnier.     {Bozving)     Madame  la  Duchesse ! 

Duchess.  My  dear  Monsieur  Toulonnier,  we 
were  just  going  to  sit  down  without  you. 

Toulonnier.  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me,  my 
dear  Duchess,  but — business,  you  know!  We  are 
literally  up  to  the  ears  in  work.  You'll  permit  me 
to  leave  early,  I  trust? 

Duchess.    With  pleasure ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Embarrassed)  Ah,  Monsieur 
Bellac! 

Toulonnier.  {To  whom  Mme.  de  Ceran  intro- 
duces Bellac)  Monsieur!  {He  and  Bellac  shake 
hands  and  talk) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Coming  to  the  Duchess)  Be 
nice  to  him,  Aunt ;  please. 

Duchess.  Your  Republican  friend?  Nonsense! 
A  man  who  gives  us  twenty  minutes  of  his  time 
as  if  he  were  a  king !    The  idea ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  You  will  at  least  allow  him  to 
escort  you  to  the  table? 

Duchess.  I  should  think  not !  Keep  him  your- 
self! I'll  take  little  Raymond.  He's  much  more 
amusing. 

{Enter  Roger,  dressed  for  dinner.) 

Roger.  {To  the  Duchess  with  a  frightened 
air)     Aunt ! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  43 

Duchess.    Well,  what  is  it  now? 

Roger.  Oh,  something — I  just  overheard  some- 
thing in  the  corridor  upstairs.     It's  unbelievable. 

Duchess.    Well,  what? 

Roger.  I  didn't  see  who  was  speaking,  but  Tm 
sure  I  heard 

(Raymond  and  Jeanne  enter  furtively.) 

Duchess.     Well,  what? 

Roger.  The  sound  of  a  kiss!  What  do  you 
think  of  that? 

Duchess.    Of  a  what ? 

Roger.    Yes,  I'm  sure  I  heard  it! 

Duchess.    Well,  who ? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Introducing  to  Toulonnier) 
Monsieur  Paul  Raymond,  Sub-prefect  of  Agenis. 

Raymond.  Monsieur  le  Secretaire-General! 
(Introducing  Jeanne)      Madame  Paul  Raymond. 

(Suzanne  enters  wearing  an  evening  gown.) 

Mme.  de  Loudan.     (Seeing  Suzanne)     Ohh! 
Bellac.    Ah,  my  young  pupil ! 

(Murmurs  of  astonishment.) 

Roger.  (To  the  Duchess)  Look,  Aunt!  De- 
collet  ee!    It's  disgraceful ! 

Duchess.  I  don't  think  so.  (Aside)  She's 
been  crying. 

Francois.     (Announcing)     Dinner  is  served. 

Roger.  (Approaching  Suzanne,  who  is  con- 
versing zvith  Bellac)  I  must  know!  (Offering 
her  his  arm)  Suzanne!  (Suzanne  looks  at  him 
coldly  and  takes  the  arm  of  Bellac  zvho  is  speak- 
ing with  Lucy) 

Bellac.  (To  Suzanne)  How  the  rest  will  envy 
me,  Mademoiselle! 


I 


44  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Roger.  (Aside)  This  is  too  much!  (He  offers 
his  arm  to  Lucy) 

Duchess.  What  does  this  mean? — Come,  Ray- 
mond, give  me  your  arm.  (Raymond  approaches 
her)  My  friend,  one  must  suffer  much,  before  one 
becomes  a  Prefect! 

Paul.  Tlie  suffering  is  by  no  means  unpleasant, 
Duchess. 

Duchess,  You're  going  to  sit  next  to  me  at  the 
table.    We'll  slander  the  Government ! 

Paul.  Oh,  Duchess !  And  I  one  of  her  servants ! 
Oh,  no! — But  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  my 
listening  to  you ! 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 

(Same  scene  as  Act  I.) 

(Bellac,  Toulon nier,  Roger,  Paul  Raymond, 
Madame  de  Ceran,  Madame  de  Loudan,  the 
Duchess,  Suzanne,  Lucy,  Jeanne,  seated  in 
a  semi-circle,  listening  to  Saint-Reault  zuho 
is  finishing  his  lecture.) 

Saint-Reault.  And  make  no  mistake  about  it! 
Profound  as  these  legends  may  appear  because  of 
their  baffling  exoticism,  they  are  merely, —  my  illus- 
trious father  wrote  in  1834 — elemental,  primitive  im- 
aginings, in  comparison  with  the  transcendental  con- 
ceptions of  Brahmin  lore  gathered  together  in  the 
Oupanischas,  or  indeed  in  the  eighteen  Paranas  of 
Vyasa,  the  compiler  of  Veda. 

Jeanne.     (Aside  to  Paul)     Are  you  asleep? 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  45 

Paul.     No,  no — I  hear  some  kind  of  gibberish.* 
Saint-Reault.     Such,  in  simple  terminology,  is 

the  concretum  of  the  doctrine  of  Buddha. — And  at 

this  point  I  shall  close  my  remarks. 

(Murmurs.     Some  of  the  audience  rise.) 

Several  Voices.    ( Weakly)    Very  good !    Good ! 

Saint-Reault.     And  now — (He  coughs) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Eagerly)  You  must  be  tired, 
Saint-Reault  ? 

Saint-Reault.    Not  at  all,  Countess  ! 

Mme.  Arriego.  Oh  yes,  you  must  be ;  rest 
yourself.    We  can  wait. 

Several  V'^oices.    You  must  rest ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  You  can't  always  remain  in 
the  clouds.     Come  down  to  earth,  Baron. 

Saint-Reault.  Thank  you,  but — well  you  see, 
I  had  already  finished. 

( Everybody  rises. ) 

Several  Voices.  So  interesting! — A  little  ob- 
scure ! — Excellent ! — Too  long ! 

Bellac.     (To  the  ladies)     Too  materialistic! 
Paul.     (To  Jeanne)     He's  bungled  it. 
Suzanne.     (Calling)     Monsieur  Bellac! 
Bellac.     Mademoiselle  ? 
Suzanne.     Come  here,  near  me. 

(Bellac  goes  to  her.) 

Roger.     {Aside  to  the  Duchess)     Aunt! 

Duchess.  (Aside  to  Roger)  She's  doing  it  on 
purpose ! 

Saint-Reault.  (Coming  to  table)  One  word 
more!     (General  surprise.     The  audience  sits  down 

*Literaily;  "  j'entendsoommeun  vag-ue  auverg-nat."    The  natives 
of  Auvergne  speak  ;i  rery  decidt^d  '  patois.'— Tr. 


46  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

in  silence  and  consternation)  Or,  rather  a  favor! — 
This  study  of  mine,  of  which,  in  spite  of  the  narrow 
limits  and  popular  character  made  necessary  by  my 
audience 

Duchess.    He  is  poHte,  isn't  he? 

Saint-Reault.  The  importance  will  perhaj^s 
have  been  realised, — this  study,  I  say,  was  in  1821, 
sixty  years  ago,  begun,  or — I  will  go  so  far  as  to 
say,  discovered  by  the  genius  whose  son  I  have  the 
honor  to  be 

Paul.  {To  Jeanne)  He's  standing  in  a  dead 
man's  shoes ! 

Saint-Reault.  This  trail  which  he  has  blazed, 
I,  too,  have  followed,  and  not  without  distinction,  if 
I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so.  Another,  coming  after 
us,  has  tried  to  snatch  a  few  words  of  wisdom  from 
the  eternal  Verity  of  the  Sphinx,  until  our  time  tin- 
fathomed  in  any  theogony.  I  speak  of  Revel,  higUl}- 
esteemed  both  as  scholar  and  gentleman.  My 
illustrious  father  is  dead,  and  Revel  is  not  long  for 
this  earth — if  he  has  not  already  passed  away. 
Therefore  I  alone  am  left  monarch  of  this  new  do- 
main of  science  of  which  my  father,  Guiliainiie 
Eriel  de  Saint-Reault  was  the  discoverer.  I,  alone! 
{Looking  at  Toulqnnier)  May  those  who  govern 
us,  those  who  are  invested  with  power  and  authority, 
those  upon  whom  will  devolve  the  delicate  task  of 
choosing  a  successor  to  our  lamented  colleague — 
whom  perhaps  we  shall  mourn  to-morrow — may 
these  eminent  men  {Looking  at  Bellac,  '^"ho  is 
speaking  zvith  Toulqnnier)  in  spite  of  the  more  or 
less  legitimate  solicitations  to  which  they  are  a  prey, 
make  an  impartial,  enlightened  choice,  determin"-id 
solely  by  the  three- fold  requirements  of  age,  aptitude 
and  acquired  perquisites — a  choice  of  a  successor 
worthy  of  my  illustrious  father,  and  of  the  great 
work  which  is  his, — and  of  which,  I  repeat  1  am  :'he 
sole  living  representative. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  47 

(Everyone  rises.    Applause  and  general  confusion. 
Meanzvhile  servants  enter  zvith  refreshments.) 

Several  Voices.     Splendid  !     Bravo ! 

Paul.    At  last  I  understand  what  h'^'s  driving  at ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    a  candidate  for  Revel's  place! 

Bellac.  In  the  Academy,  the  New  School,  in 
everything! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Aside)  I  might  have  ex- 
pected it ! 

Servant.  (Announcing)  The  General,  Comte 
de  Briais ! — Monsieur  Virot ! 

(Enter  the  General  and  M.  Virot.) 

General.  (Kissing  Madame  de  Ceran's  hand) 
Countess ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Ah,  Senator 

Virot.  (Ki^ssing  Madame  de  Ceran's  hand) 
Madame  la  Comtesse ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (To  Virot)  Too  late!  my 
dear  Deputy,  too  late ! 

General.  (Gallantly)  One  cannot  come  too 
early  to  your  salon.  Countess ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Monsieur  de  Saint-Reault  was 
speaking;  can  one  say  more? 

General.   (Boivng  to  ^'aint-Reault)     My  loss! 

Virot.  (Taking  the  General  to  the  left)  Well, 
Senator,  if  the  House  passes  the  law,  will  you  vote 
it  down? 

General.  Of  course — at  least  the  first  time! 
The  Senate  must  do  that  much. 

Virot.    Ah!  Duchess! 

(Together    zvith    the    General    they   go    to    greet 
the  Duchess. — Paul   Raymond  q^ 
slip  out  of  the  room  into  the  garden.) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (To  Saint-Reault)  You 
surpassed  yourself   this   evening,   Saint-Reault! 


48  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  Arriego.  Yes,  you  surpassed  yourself. 
There  is  no  other  word  for  it. 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  Ah,  Baron,  Baron,  what  a 
world  you  have  opened  up  to  us !  How  captivat- 
ing are  these  first  stammering  professions  of  primi- 
tive faith ! !  And  that  Buddhist  Trinity,  oh,  I'm 
quite  mad  about  it ! 

Lucy.  {To  Saint -Reault)  Pardon  my  bold- 
ness, Monsieur,  but  in  your  enumeration  of  the 
Sacred  Books,  it  seemed  to  me  that  you  omitted 
something. 

Saint-Reault.  {Piqued)  Ah,  you  think  so. 
Mademoiselle  ? 

Lucy.  I  did  not  hear  you  mention  either  the 
Mahabarata,  or  the  Ramayana. 

Saint-Reault.  But  those  are  not  the  Sacred 
Books,  they  are  merely  poems  v/hose  ancient  ori- 
gin rendered  them  objects  of  veneration  for  the 
Hindoos.     They   are   works   of  literature,  merely. 

Lucy.  But  nevertheless,  the  Academy  of  Cal- 
cutta  

Saint-Reault.  I  merely  give  you  the  opinion 
of  the  Brahmins!    You  have  another  of  your  own? 

Suzanne.     {Loudly)     Monsieur  Bellac! 

Bellac.     Mademoiselle  ? 

Suzanne.  Give  me  your  arm ;  let's  take  a  little 
walk,  I  want  the  air! 

Bellac.     But — Mademoiselle 

Suzanne.    Don't  you  wish  to? 

Bellac.     But  just  at  this  time ? 

Suzanne.  Do  come!  {She  almost  drags  him 
out) 

Roger.  {To  the  Duchess)  She's  going  out 
with  him ! 

Duchess.  Follow  them! — Wait,  I'll  go  with 
you — I  need  a  breath  of  air  myself ;  lie's  put  me 
to  sleep  with  his  Brahmins,  the  old  fakir!  {They 
go  out) 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  49 

TouLONNiER.  (To  Saint-Reault)  Very 
learned  and  full  of  new  ideas — (In  an  undertone) 
I  caught  that  hint  of  yours,  my  dear  Baron.  There 
was  really  no  need.  We  are  all  on  your  side. 
(They  shake  hands) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (To  Saint-Reault)  I  beg 
your  pardon !  (Aside  to  Toulonnier)  You  won't 
forget  my  boy? 

TouLONNiER.  I  shall  no  more  forget  my 
promise  than — I  will  yours. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  You  understand,  you  will  re- 
ceive your  six  votes  in  the  Senate.  You  under- 
stand also  that  on  the  publication  of  his  report 

Toulon NiER.  You  are  well  aware,  Countess, 
that  we  are  all  on  your  side. 

Paul.  (To  Jeanne,  as  they  come  in  from  the 
garden)     That  time  they  did  see  us! 

Jeanne.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  anything  under 
the  trees. 

Paul.  We  were  almost  caught  before  dinner. 
Twice  would  be  too  much !  I  don't  want  to  risk 
it. 

Jeanne.  Didn't  you  promise  to  kiss  me  every 
time  we  were  in  the  dark  ?    Yes  or  no  ? 

Paul.  (Excitedly)  Do  you  want  to  be  a  wife 
of  a  Prefect  or  not?     Yes  or  no? 

Jeanne.  (Equally  excited)  Yes, — but  mean- 
while I'm  not  going  to  be  his  widow ! 

(Madame  de  Ceran  goes  to  them.) 

Paul.  (Aside  to  Jeanne)  The  Countess! 
(Aloud)  Really,  Jeanne,  yon  prefer  the  Bhagavata? 

Jeanne.     Oh,  the  Bhagavata,  my  dear 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Did  you  understand  any  of 
that  mass  of  erudition,  Madame?  Poor  Saint- 
Reault  seemed  particularly  wordy  and  obscure 
this  evening! 

Paul.     (Aside)     The  jealous  rival! 


50  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Jeanne.  But  towards  the  end,  Countess,  he 
was  clear  enough. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Ah,  yes,  about  his  candidacy; 
you  understood? 

Jeanne.  Well,  after  all,  if  faith  requires  science 
to  support  it,  has  not  science  some  need  of  faith? — ■ 
as  Monsieur  de  Maistre  has  said. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Very  good  indeed!  I  must 
introduce  you  to  a  gentleman  who  will  be  very 
useful  to  3^ou :  General  de  Briais,  the  Senator. 

Jeanne.     And  how  about  the  Deputy,  Countess? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Oh,  the  Senator  is  more 
powerful ! 

Jeanne.     But  the  Deputy  is  more  active! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Really,  my  dear  Raymond, 
you  are  very  fortunate.  (Pressing  Jeanne's  hand) 
and  so  am  I!  (To  Jeanne)  Good — I'll  intro- 
duce you  to  both ! 

Paul.  (Following  Jeanne,  who  follows  Madame 
DE  Ceran  )     Angel ! ! 

Jeanne.  Aren't  we  going  where  it's  dark  pretty 
soon? 

Paul.  Yes,  my  angel,  but  wait  until  the  rest 
are  gone !  I'll  tell  you :  while  the  tragedy  is  being 
read! 

Servant.  (Announcing)  Madame  la  baronne 
de  Boines — Monsieur  Melchior  de  BoinesJ^ 

(Enter  Mme.  de  Boines  and  Melchior.) 

Baroness.  (To  Madame  de  Ceran,  zvho  is 
about  to  receive  her)     Ah,  my  dear,  I  am  in  time? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  You  are  too  late  for  Science, 
too  early  for  Poetry!     I  am  waiting  for  my  poet. 

Baroness.    Who  is  he? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     An  unknown. 

Baroness.     Young? 

Mme.  de  -Ceran.  I  know  nothing  whatsoever 
about  him,  but  I  am  assured  that  this  is  his  nrst 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  51 

work.  Gaiac  is  bringing  him — you  know  Gaiac,  of 
the  Conservateur?  They  should  have  been  here  at 
nine.     I  can't  imagine  what  keeps  them. 

Baroness.  I  shall  profit  by  the  circumstance, 
for  I  came  to  see  neither  scholar  nor  poet.  I  came 
to  see  him,  my  dear:  Bellac!  Think  of  it,  I've 
never  met  him!  He  is  so  attractive,  they  tell  me! 
Princess  Okolitch  is  quite  mad  about  him,  you 
know.  Where  is  he?  Oh,  show  him  to  me, 
Countess. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  was  just  looking  for  him, 
and  I — {Seeing  Bellac  enter  with  Suzanne) 
There ! 

Baroness.  Is  that  he,  coming  in  with  Mile,  de 
Villiers? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Astonished)     Yes! 

Baroness.  How  lovely  he  is,  dear !  Isn't  he 
handsome !  And  you  let  him  go  about  with  that 
young  girl ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Aside — looking  at  Suzanne 
and  Bellac)     That's  strange 

Melchior.  And  may  I  shake  hands  with 
Roger  ? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  doubt  if  you  can  at  this  mo- 
ment. He  must  be  hard  at  work  just  now.  {Enter 
Duchess  and  Roger.  Aside,  looking  at  these  lat- 
ter)    What's  this — and  with  the  Duchess? 

Roger.  {To  the  Duchess,  greatly  agitated) 
Well,  did  you  hear,  Aunt? 

Duchess.     Yes,  but  I  saw  nothing. 

Roger.     It  was  certainly  a  kiss,  that  time ! 

Duchess.  And  ,a  good  smack!  Who  could 
there  be  here  who  v/ould  kiss  like  that? 

Roger.    Who,  indeed? 

Duchess.  {Seeing  Madame  de  Ceran,  as  she 
approaches  them)     Your  mother! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  How  is  this,  Roger,  aren't  you 
supposed  to  be  at  work  ? 

Roger.     No,  Mother,  I— — 


52  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Well,  well,  what  about  your 
Tumulif 

Roger.  I  have  plenty  of  time:  I  can  work  on 
it  to-night,  and  later  in  the  week. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  The  idea!  The  minister  is 
waiting ! 

Roger.    Let  him  wait,  Mother!     (He  goes  away) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Stupefied)  Duchess,  what 
does  this  mean? 

Duchess.  Tell  me,  isn't  someone  going  to  read 
us  some  sort  of  nonsense  this  evening?  Some 
tragedy ? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Yes. 

Duchess.  Your  reading  is  to  be  in  the  next 
room,  isn't  it?  Get  the  people  out  of  here,  will 
you?     I  shall  need  this  room,  as  soon  as  possible. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Why? 

Duchess.     I'll  tell  you  that  during  the  traegdy. 

Servant.  (Announcing)  Monsieur  le  Vicomte 
de  Gaiac !     Monsieur  des  Millets  ! 

(Enter  de  Gaiac  and  des  Millets.) 

Duchess.  Well — I — look  at  your  poet!  There 
he  is! 

Several  Voices.  The  poet ! — The  young  poet ! — 
Where? — Where  is  he? 

Gaiac.  Will  you  ever  forgive  me,  Countess?  I 
was  kept  at  the  office,  (Aside)  I  was  writing  up 
your  soiree! — Monsieur  des  Millets,  my  friend 
the  tragic  poet,  whose  talent  you  will  soon  have  an 
opportunity  of  appreciating. 

Des  Millets.  (Bozving)     Madame  la  Comteese! 

Duchess.  (To  Roger)  So  that  is  the  young 
poet!     He's  an  odd  one! 

Mme.  Arriego.  (Aside  to  the  other  ladies) 
How  awful! 

Baroness.     He's  gray! 

Mme.  de  Saint-Reault.     Bald! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  53 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  He  has  no  talent:  he's  much 
too  ugly,  my  dear! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  We  are  very  happy,  Monsieur, 
my  guests  and  myself,  to  be  favored  with  your 
presence ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  (Approaching  him)  A  virgin 
triumph,  Monsieur!     How  grateful  we  are! 

Des  Millets.  (Confused)     Ah,  Madame! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  And  it  is  really  your  first 
work.  Monsieur? 

Des  Millets.    Oh,  I  have  written  several  poems ! 

Gaiac.  Crowned  by  the  Academy,  Madame  la 
Comtesse. 

Jeanne.   (To  Paul,  admiringly)     Crowned?! 

Paul.  (To  Jeanne)     Medlocritas! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  And  this  is  your  first  attempt 
in  the  realm  of  the  drama?  Ah  well,  maturity  of 
years  guarantees  maturity  of  talent ! 

Des.  Millets.  Alas,  Madame  la  Comtesse,  the 
play  was  written  fifteen  years  ago! 

Ladies.  Fifteen  years ! — Is  it  possible  ? ! — 
Really? 

Gaiac.  Ah,  Des  Millets  has  faith  in  his  work! 
We  must  encourage  those  who  have  faith,  should 
we  not,  ladies? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  Of  course!  We  must  en- 
courage the  tragic  form,  must  we  not,  General? 
Tragedy 

General.  (Interrupting  himself  in  his  conversa- 
tion with  Virot)  Eh?  Oh,  yes,  tragedy! 
"Horace!"  "Cinna!"  Of  course  we  must! 
Tragedy  is  necessary  for  the  masses — (To  Des  Mil- 
lets)    May  we  have  the  title? 

Des  Millets.    Philippe- Auguste! 

General.  Fine  subject!  Good  military  sub- 
ject!— In  verse,  isn't  it? 

Des   Millets.     Oh,  General!     A  tragedy 1 

General.    A  good  many  acts,  I  suppose? 

Des  Millets.     Five. 


54  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

General.    Ha!    Ha!    Good!    Good! 

Jeanne.  (Aside  to  Paul)  Five  acts!  How 
lovely !    We'll  have  plenty  of  time ! 

Paul.     Sh-h ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  The  road  to  Parnassus  is 
long! 

Mme.  de  Saint-Reault.    What  a  mighty  effort! 

Mme.  Arriego.     That  must  be  encouraged ! 

(Suzanne's  laugh  is  heard  above  the  murmur  of 
the  conversation . ) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Suzanne ! 

Duchess.  (To  Madame  de  Ceran)  Lead  out 
your  Euripides  and  his  press  agent !  Get  rid  of 
the  lot  of  them ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Now  ladies,  shall  we  go  into  the 
large  drawing-room  and  hear  the  reading?  (To 
Des  Millets)     Are  you  ready,  Monsieur? 

Des  Millets.    As  you  like,  Madame  la  Comtesse. 

Paul.   (Aside  to  Jeanne)     Age  before  beauty! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Come,  ladies! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  (hiterccptlng  her  zvay)  Oh, 
but  first,  Countess,  let  us — the  ladies  and  me — carrj' 
out  our  little  plot!  (Going  to  Bellac,  and  saying 
with  an  air  of  supplication)     Monsieur  Bellac? 

Bellac.    Marquise? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  I  want  to  ask  a  great  favor 
of  you. 

Bellac.  (Graciously)  The  favor  which  you 
ask  me  becomes  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the 
favor  you  do  me  in  asking  it  so  charmingly. 

Ladies.    Oh,  how  lovely ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  This  poetic  tragedy  will 
doubtless  occupy  the  remainder  of  the  evening  ;  it 
will  certainly  prove  a  fitting  climax ! — Please  say 
a  few  words  beforehand — as  few  as  you  like!  Of 
course,  Genius  must  not  be  overtaxed !  But,  please, 
just  a  few  words.  They  will  be  received  like  the 
Manna  of  old! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  55 

Suzanne.    Please,  Monsieur  Bellac! 
Mme.  Arriego.    Be  generous! 
Baroness.     We  throw  ourselves  at  your  feet! 
Bellac.  (Defending  himself)     Oh.  ladies  ! 
Mme.    de    Loudan.      Come    to    our    assistance, 
Lucy — you,  his  Muse!     You  plead  with  him! 
Lucy.    Of  course ;  I  ask  him,  now. 
Suzanne.    And  I,  I  want  him  to ! 
Voices.    Oh,  oh  1 
Mme.  de  Ceran.     Suzanne! 

Bellac.    Well,  since  you  force  me 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    Oh,  he  will!    Quick,  a  chair! 

(Commotion  about  Bellac.) 

Mme.  Arriego.    A  table? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    Shall  we  make  a  circle? 

.Mme.  de  Ceran.     Give  him  a  little  room,  ladies. 

Bellac.     Pray,  no  formality ! 

Virot.  (To  the  General)  You  must  be  careful, 
the  law  is  very  popular. 

Ladies.    Sh-h ! 

Bellac.    Please,  no  stage-setting — nothing  that — 

Virot.    Well,  yes — but  the  voters? 

General.    My  position  is  perfectly  safe ! 

Ladies.    Sh-h  !    Oh,  General ! 

Bellac.  Nothing  evocative  of  the  school-room, 
the  platform,  or  pedantry.  Please,  ladies,  let  it  be  an 
informal  chat :  ask  me  questions. 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  (IVith  clasped  hands)  Oh, 
Monsieur  Bellac.  tell  us  about  your  book ! 

Mme.  Arriego.  (JVith  clasped  hands)  Yes,  the 
book ! 

Baroness.  (With  clasped  hands)  Your  book, 
yes ! 

Suzanne.  (With  clasped  hands)  Oh,  Monsieur 
Bellac ! 

Bellac.  Irresistible  supplications '  And  yet  I 
must  protect  myself  :  until  everyone  shall  have  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  my  book,  no  one  shall. 


56  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  {With  meaning)  Mm — no 
one? 

Bellac.  Ah,  Marquise,  **  Take  care !  There  may 
be  a  secret !  "  as  Fontenelle  said  to  Mme.  de  Cou- 
langes. 

Ladies.    Charming !    Charming ! 

Baroness.  (Aside  to  Mme.  de  Loudan)  How 
clever ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    He  is  more  than  clever. 

Baroness.    What  then? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    His  wit  has  wings;  you'll  see. 

Bellac.  This  is  neither  the  time  nor  the  place, 
you  will  admit,  ladies,  to  plumb  the  depths  of  certain 
of  those  eternal  problems  and  mysterious  enigmas 
of  hfe  and  the  Beyond  which  harass  and  torment 
noble  souls,  like  your  own ! 

Ladies.  Ah,  the  *'  Beyond,"  my  dear,  the  '  Be- 
yond!" 

BellAc.  But,  aside  from  this,  I  am  quite  at 
your  service.  There  is  one  point,  however,  which 
comes  to  mind,  a  point  which  is  eternally  discussed 
and  never  settled,  upon  which  I  ask  your  leave  to 
say  a  few  words. 

Ladies.    DO,  do ! 

Bellac.  I  shall  speak,  then,  with  a  threefold 
purpose : — first,  to  fulfil  your  request,  ladies ;  (Look- 
ing at  Mme.  de  Loudan) — to  bring  back  a  friend 
who  has  been  led  away 

Baroness.  (Aside  to  Mme.  de  Loudan,  who 
modestly  drops  her  eyes)    That  is  you,  my  dear! 

Bellac.  (Looking  at  Lucy)  And  to  combat  an 
adversary  who  has  proved  to  be  exceedingly  dan- 
gerous— in  more  ways  than  one. 

Ladies.  That  means  Lucy ! — It  is  Lucy ! — 
Lucy ! 

Bellac.    My  subject  is — Love! 

Ladies.  (Approving)     Ahh! — Ahh! 

Duchess.    For  a  change ! 

Suzanne.    Bravo ! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  57 

(Low  murmurs.) 

Jeanne.  {To  Paul)  That  young  lady  is  feeling 
very  fit,  it  seems ! 

Bellac.  Concerning  love ! — The  weakness 
which  is  a  strength ! — The  sentiment  which  is  a 
faith !  The  only  religion,  perhaps,  which  knows  no 
scoffers ! 

Ladies.     Ah  ! — Charming ! — Charming ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  {To  the  Baroness)  Ah,  the 
wings,  my  dear — the  wings  1 

Bellac.  I  spoke  this  morning— in  the  course  of 
my  lecture  on  German  Literature  at  the  Princess's — 
of  a  certain  philosopher  who^jnade  instinct  the 
basis  and  the  rule  of  all  our  actions  and  all  our 
thoughts. 

Ladies.  {Protesting)     Oh!— Oh!— Oh! 

Bellac.  And  now,  ladies,  I  take  the  occasion 
emphatically  to  declare  that  that  opinion  is  not  my 
opinion,  and  that  I  deny  the  theory  with  every  fiber 
of  my  soul  and  being! 

Ladies.    Goojd !    Excellent ! 

Baroness.  {Aside  to  Mme.  de  Loudan)  What 
pretty  hands ! 

Bellac*  No,  ladies,  no!  Love  is  not,  as  the 
German  Philosopher  has  it,  a  purely  specific  pas- 
sion ;  a  deceitful  illusion  blinding  mankind  in  order 
to  arrive  at  its  own  ends,  no !  a  hundred  times  no ! 
if  we  have  souls ! 

Ladies.     Yes !— Yes ! 

Suzanne.     Bravo ! 

Duchess.  {Aside  to  Roger)  She  is  certainly 
doing  that  on  purpose ! 

Bellac.  Leave  to  the  Sophists  and  to  vulgar 
natures  such  soul-stunting  theories :  do  not  even 
consider  them ;  answer  them  with  silence,  thejan- 
guage  of  the  outcast ! 

Ladies.     Charming ! — Charming  1 

Bellac.     God  forbid  I   should  go  so  far  as  to 


58  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

deny  the  sovereign  influence  of  beauty  over  the  un- 
certain wills  of  men!  (Looking  about  him)  I  see 
too  much  about  me  by  way  of  refutation  to  that 
argument ! 

Ladies.    Ah ! — Ah  ! 

Roger.   (To  the  Duchess)     He  looked  at  her! 

Duchess.    Yes. 

Bellac.  But  above  this  material  and  mortal 
beauty,  there  is  another,  time-defying,  invisible  to 
the  naked  eye,  which  the  soul  of  purity  serenely 
contemplates  and  cherishes  with  an  unearthly  love. 
That  love,  ladies,  is  the  true  Love,  the  mingling  of 
two  spirits,  their  flight  far  from  the  terrestrial 
mire — into  the  infinite  blue  of  the  ideal ! 

Ladies.    Bravo ! 

Duchess.  (To  herself,  rather  loudly)  Non- 
sense ! 

Bellac.  (Looking  at  her)  That  love,  mocked  at 
by  some,  unknown  to  most, — I  declare,  my  hand  on 
my  heart,  that  it  does  exist!  In  the  souls  of  the 
elect,  as  Proudhon  says 

Voices.   (Protesting)     Oh,  Proudhon ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.    Oh,  Bellac ! 

Bellac.  A  writer  whom  I  am  astonished  to  find 
myself  quoting — I  beg  your  pardons !  In  the  souls 
of  the  elect,  there  is  nothing  of  earth. 

Ladies.    How  delicate  !    Charming ! 

Duchess.   (Bursting  forth)     Nonsense!- 

Ladies.    Oh,  Duchess ! 

Bellac.  (Bowing  to  the  Duchess)  And  yet,  it 
exists.  Noble  spirits  have  felt  it,  great  poets  sung 
its  praises,  and  in  the  seats  of  Heaven,  the  apothe- 
osis of  our  dreams,  we  see,  enshrined  about  with 
haloes  of  ethereal  brightness,  those  immortal  figures, 
everlasting  proof  of  an  immortal  and  psychic  love : 
Beatrice,  Laura 

Duchess.  Laura,  the  mother  of  eleven,  my  dear 
Monsieur ! 

Ladies.    Duchess ! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  59 

Duchess.  Ekven!  And  you  call  her  love 
psychic ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  They  were  not  Petrarch's, 
Duchess;  let's  have  fair  play. 

Bellac.    Heloise 

Duchess.    Oh,  she 

Bellac.  And  their  sisters  of  more  recent  date : 
Elvira,  Eloa,  and  many  others,  known  and  unknown. 
That  cohort  of  pure  and  unknown  loves,  is  growing 
from  day  to  day — I  call  all  womankind  to  witness! 

Ladies.    Ah,  my  dear,  how  true! 

Bellac.  The  soul  has  a  language  all  its  own ; 
its  aspirations,  its  pleasures  and  its  tortures  belong 
to  it :  are  its  very  existence.  And  if  it  be  chained 
to  the  body,  it  is  like  the  wing  of  a  bird :  in  order 
to  raise  it  to  the  heights ! 

Ladies.     Ah,  bravo! 

Bellac.  (Rising)  This  is  what  modern  science 
ought  to  take  into  consideration — {Looking  at 
Saint-Reault)  that  science  which  a  leaden 
materialism  drags  down  to  earth — I  shall  add,  since 
our  venerable  master  and  friend  made  an  allusion 
not  long  since — perhaps  a  trifle  over-hasty — to  a 
loss  which  science,  I  hope,  will  not  have  to  com- 
plain of — I  shall  add — (Looking  at  Toulon nier, 
to  whom  Saint-Reault  is  speaking)  in  fine,  this  is 
what  he  should  teach  to  the  youth  who  have  been 
under  the  guidance  of  Revel,  he — whoever  he  may 
be — who  will  be  chosen  to  carry  on  the  work ;  and 
not  only  (asking  the  pardon  of  our  illustrious  col- 
league) upon  the  insufficient  authority  vested  in 
those  who  have  "  acquired  the  right ;  "  or  erudition, 
or  age — ought  he  to  base  his  claim,  1)ut  upon  the 
irresistible  power  of  a  mind  imbued  with  the  spirit 
of  youth  and  of  a  fiery  ardor  vrhich  is  not  to  be 
extinguished ! 

Voices.  Bravo ! — Charming ! — Exquisite ! — De- 
licious ! 


6o  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

(Everyone  rises.     Confused  murmurs  of  conversa- 
Hon.     The  ladies  surround  Bellac.) 

Duchess.  (Aside)     That  for  you,  Saint-Reault ! 

Paul.  (Aside)     Candidate  number  two! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.     Ah,  Monsieur  Bellac! 

Suzanne.     Dear  Professor! 

Baroness.    A  veritable  banquet  of  the  soul ! 

Mme.  Arriego.    Beautiful! 

Bellac.  Oh,  ladies,  I  have  but  given  words  to 
your  ideas ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.     Flatterer!     Charmer! 

Bellac.      Are    we    reconciled    yet,    Marquise? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  How  can  one  be  angry  with 
you?  (Introducing  the  Baroness)  Madame  la 
Baronne  de  Boines — another  conquest !  She  is  at 
your  feet  already ! 

Baroness.      You    made    me    weep,    Monsieur. 

Bellac.     Oh,  Madame  la  Baronne! 

Mme.  Arrikgo.     Isn't  it  superb! 

Baroness.    Superb ! 

Suzanne.  And  how  warm  he  is!  (Bellac 
looks  for  his  handkerchief)  You  haven't  one?. 
Here!     (She  gives  him  her  handkerchief) 

Bellac.    Oh,  Mademoiselle! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Suzanne!    The  idea! 

Suzanne.  (To  Bellac,  as  he  returns  her  hand- 
kerchief)   Oh,  keep  it,  I'm  going  to  get  you  a  drink. 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  (Going  tozvard  the  table  he- 
fore  which  Saint-Reault  spoke,  upon  which  is  a 
tray  and  glasses  of  sugar-and-water)     Here,  drink ! 

Roger.  (Aside  to  the  Duchess)     Look,  Aunt! 

Duchess.  She's  too  brazen  about  it  to  be  in 
earnest. 

Bellac.  (Aside  to  Lucy)  And  are  you  con- 
vinced ? 

Lucy.  Oh,  for  my  part,  the  concept  of  love — 
No,  I'll  tell  you  later! 

Bellac.    In  a  little  while? 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  6i 

Lucy.  Yes — would  you  like  a  glass  of  water? 
{She  goes  upstage) 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  {Arriving  with  a  glass  of 
water)  No  !  Let  me  !  The  god  must  pardon  me : 
I  can  offer  you  only  water,  as  the  secret  of  Nectar- 
making  is  lost ! 

Mme.  Arriego.  {Arriving  zvith  a  glass  of  water) 
A  glass  of  water,  Monsieur  Bellac? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.     No,  no — take  mine!     Mine! 

Mme.  Arriego.     No,  mine! 

Bellac.    {Embarrassed)     Well,  I 

Lucy.   {Handing  him  a  glass  of  zvater)     Here! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  Oh,  he'll  choose  Lucy,  I 
know! — Lm  so  jealous! — No,  mine!  mine! 

Suzanne.  {Arriving  with  another  glass  of  zvater 
and  forcing  it  upon  Bellac)  No,  no,  he'll  take 
mine  !     Ha,  ha  !  the  fourth  thief ! 

Lucy.     But,  Mademoiselle ! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  {Aside)  That  little  girl  has 
impudence ! 

Roger.  {To  the  Duchess,  indicating  Suzanne) 
Aunt ! 

Duchess.    What's  the  matter  with  her? 

Roger.    It's  just  since  Bellac  has  come ! 

(The  doors  are  opened  and  the  large  drazmng-room 
is  seen,  lighted.) 

Duchess.  At  last!  {To  Madame  de  Ceran) 
take  away  your  company, — now  is  your  chance ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Come,  ladies,  our  tragedy  is 
about  to  be  read !  In  the  large  drawing-room ! 
After  the  reading  we  shall  take  tea  in  the  conserva- 
tory. 

Lucy,  Bellac  and  Suzanne.  {Aside)  In  the 
conservatory ! 

Roger.  {Aside  to  the  Duchess)  Did  you  notice 
Suzanne  ?    She  started ! 

Duchess.    And  so  did  Bellac  ! 


62  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  Come,  Ladies,  the  Muse  is 
calling  us. 

{The  guests  pass  slowly  into   the  large  drazving- 

room.) 

General.  (To  Paul)  What  is  that,  my  dear 
Sub-prefect — three  years ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Come,  General ! 

General.  (Still  talking  with  Paul)  Ah,  yes. 
Countess,  the  tragedy! — You  are  right,  one  must 
encourage  Art ! — Five  acts !     Oh ! 

Jeanne.  (To  Paul)  It's  settled  then,  about  — 
later ? 

Paul.    Yes,  yes — It's  settled. 

General.  (Returning  to  Paul)  Three  years, 
you  say,  as  Sub-prefect  in  the  same  place?  And 
they  say  the  government  isn't  Conservative! 

Paul.    That's  pretty  good,  Senator ;  excellent  I 

General.    Oh ! 

Toulonnier.  (To  Madame  de  Loudan)  That's 
understood.  Marquise !  (To  Madame  Arriego)  At 
your  service,  my  dear  Madame! 

Bellac.  (To  Toulonnier)  Well,  General  Sec- 
retary, may  I  hope ? 

Toulonnier.  (Giving  him  his  hand)  It  is 
merely  what  is  due  to  you ;  you  may  count  on  us ! 
(He  goes  off) 

General.  (As  he  comes  down  to  Paul)  And 
what  is  the  spirit  of  your  Department  *  my  dear 
Sub-prefect?  By  Jove,  you  ought  to  know  it,  after 
three  years ! 

Paul.  Well,  General,  its  spirit — why,  it — the — 
its  spirit — it  hasn't  any  ! !  (They  go  out  at  the  back. 
As  Suzanne  passes  the  piano  she  runs  her  hand 
across  the  keys,  making  a  terrible  noise) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Severely  to^  Suzanne)  But, 
Su-zanne !    What ! 

♦Modern  France  Is  divided  into  ninety-seven  "' D6parte-meuts" 
which  roughly  correspond  to  the  states  5n  the  United  States  —Tr. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  63 

Suzanne.  (As  if  astonished)  What  is  it, 
Cousin  ? 

Duchess.  (Stopping  her  and  looking  into  her 
face)     What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

Suzanne.  (With  a  nervous  smile)  Me?  Oh, 
I  am  just  amusing  myself ! 

Duchess.    What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

Suzanne.  Nothing,  Aunt,  I  tell  you  I  am  just 
amusing  myself ! 

Duchess.     What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

Suzanne.  (Stifling  a  sob]  Oh,  I  feel  so  badly! 
(She  goes  into  the  large  drawing-room  and  slams 
the  door  violently  after  her) 

Duchess.  She's  in  love,  or  I'm  no  judge- — and 
I  am  a  judge!  -— -^^C' 

Mme.  de  CiiRAN  '-  (To  the  Duchess)  But  what 
is  the  matter — ?  (To  Roger)  Why  aren't  you  at 
work  on  your  report?  What  has  happened? 
Please  ? ! 

Roger.     You  were  right  all  the  while ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Suzanne ? 

Roger.     Suzanne — and  that  man  ! ! 

Duchess.  Stop  !  You're  going  to  say  something 
foolish ! 

Roger.    But  I 

Duchess.  (To  AIadame  de  Ceran)  W^e  dis- 
covered a  letter  in  her  possession. 

^Ime.  de  Ceran.    From  Bellac? 

Duchess.    I  haven't  the  slightest  idea. 

Roger.    What  ? ! 

Duchess.  Disguised  handwriting — unsigned — 
not  the  slightest  idea ! 

Roger.  Oh,  you  must  have !  He's  not  running 
any  risks. — I  say 

Duchess.  (To  Roger)  Keep  still!  (To  Madame 
de  Ceran)  Listen  to  this;  "  I  shall  arrive  Thurs- 
day  " 

Roger.  To-day ! — Therefore  either  he  or  I 
wrote  that  letter! 


64  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Duchess.  Will  you  be  still?  "This  evening  at 
ten,  in  the  Conservatory." 

Roger.    "  Say  you  have  a  headache." 

Duchess.  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot :  "  Say  you  have  a 
headache." 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Why,  it  is  a  rendezvous! 

Duchess.    There's  no  doubt  about  it. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    With  her! 

Duchess.     I  don't  know  about  that! 

Roger.    But  I  think 

Duchess.  You  think!  You  think! — When  it 
comes  to  accusing  a  woman, — it's  not  enough  to 
*'  think,"  you  must  see,  and  when  you  have  seen, 
and  seen  and  seen  again — then,  well  then, — it's  not 
true  anyway!  {Aside)  It's  good  to  say  these 
things  to  the  young! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  A  rendezvous,  what  did  I  tell 
you  ? !  Well,  well,  what  more  could  be  expected 
of  her,  after  all?  And  in  my  house!  Like  a  girl 
of  the  streets !  Now,  Duchess,  what  are  you  going 
to  do,  tell  me  that?  I  asked  them  to  begin  in  there 
without  me,  but  I  can't  wait  here  all  evening!  I 
hear  the  poet ;  they Ve  begun.  Please,  what  are  you 
going  to  do  ? 

Duchess.  Do?  Stay  here. — Quarter  to  ten; 
if  she  keeps  the  appointment  she  must  come  through 
here,  and  then  I'll  see  him. 

Roger.    But  if  she  goes,  Aunt?  ^ 

Duchess.  If  she  goes,  my  dear  nephew?  Well! 
I  shall  go  too !  And  without  saying  a  word,  I'll 
see  where  they  go.  And.  when  I  see  how  matters 
stand,  then  and  then  only,  will  it  be  time  to  act. 

Roger.   (Sitting  dozvn)     I'll  wait. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  It's  useless  for  you  to  wait, 
my  dear,  we  are  here.  You  have  your  Tumuli,  run 
along!     {She  urges  him  to  the  door) 

Roger.     Please,  mother !     It's  a  matter  that 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  It  concerns  your  position.  Go 
now,  run  away! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  65 

Roger.  (Resisting)  I  should  be  very  sorry  to 
have  to  disobey  you,  but 

Mme.  DE  Ceran.    Now,  Roger! 

Roger.  Please,  mother ! — I  couldn't  write  a  line 
this  evening,  I  am  too — I  don't  know  what — I  am 
very  disturbed — My  conscience  tells  me  that  I 
have  not  acted  toward  that  young  girl  as  I  ought. 
I'm  very — Think  of  it,  Mother, — Suzanne! — It 
would  be  awful — ! !    I  am  in  a  fearful  position 

Duchess.     Surely  you  exaggerate ! 

Roger.  (Flaring  up)     Really! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Roger!     What  do  you  mean! 

Roger.  I  am  her  tutor ;  it  is  my  duty  to  look 
after  her  moral  welfare  I — Think  of  my  responsi- 
l.tility — that  child's  honor  is  in  my  hands!  It  is  a 
sacred  charge  placed  in  my  keeping;  if  I  violate 
my  trust  I  should  be  worse  than  a  criminal.  And 
then  you  talk  to  me  about  Tumuli!  Tumuli! 
Tumuli!    The  devil  take  the  Tumuli! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     (Terrified)     Oh! 

Duchess.    Well,  well! 

Roger.  And  I  say,  if  this  is  true,  if  that  cad 
has  dared  to  take  advantage  of  our  hospitality  and 
her  innocence! — I'm  going  straight  to  him — and 
demand  a  public  apology,  do  you  hear? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    My  son  ! 

Roger.     Before  everyone  1 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  This  is  madness! — Duchess, 
forgive  him,  he's 

Duchess.  Oho!  I  like  to  see  him  like  that,  you 
know 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Roger! 

Roger.  No,  motlier.  this  is  my  affair — I'll  vv-ait 
here.     (He  sits  down) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Very  vscll,  then,  I'll  wait,  too. 

Roger.    You  ? 

Mme.  de  Cer.\n.    Yes,  and  I'll  talk  to  him. 

Duchess.     But  be  careful ! 

Mme.   de  Ceran.     Oh,   I'll  be   careful   enough ; 


66  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

but  if  she  persists,  I  shall  let  her  have  my  opinion 
on  the  subject!    I'll  wait.     (She  sits  down) 

Duchess.  Not  long!  Five  minutes  to  ten!  If 
she  is  going  to  have  her  headache,  it  is  due  about 
now.  (The  door  at  the  back  swings  open  slozvly) 
Shhh 

Roger.    There  she  is! 

(As  the  door  opens,  the  voice  of  the  poet  is  heard 
declaiming. ) 

Poet.  (Outside)    "  Then  let  me  cleanse  the  earth 
of  this  vile  brood ! 
Death's  portals  shall  not  check  my  vengeance,  nor 
Shall  I  retreat  before  the  yawning  grave " 

(Jeanne  appears;  closes  the  door.) 

Duchess.    The  Sub-prefect's  wife ! 

Jeanne.  (Astonished  at  seeing  them)     Oh! 

Duchess.  Come  in,  don't  be  afraid.  It  would 
seem  that  you  have  had  enough  ? 

Jeanne.    Oh  no,  Duchess,  but  you  see,  I 

Duchess.    You  don't  care  for  tragedy? 

Jeanne.    Oh,  yes  I  do! 

Duchess.  Oh,  you  needn't  say  so  to  be  polite ; 
there  are  seventeen  others  who  feel  as  you  do! 
(Aside)  What  can  she  be  up  to? — It  wasn't  in- 
teresting, was  it? 

Jeanne.    Quite  the  contrary! 

Duchess.  "  Quite  the  contrary,"  as  you  say  to 
the  person  who  asks  you  whether  it  hurt  when  he 
stepped  on  your  corn? 

Jeanne.  Oh,  not  at  all !  There  were  some  very 
interesting  things — there  was  one  beautiful  line. 

Duchess.    A  whole  line  ? 

Jeanne.  And  the  applause  was  great.  (Aside) 
What  shall  I  do? 

Duchess.  Ha!  Ha!  What  was  the  beautiful 
line? 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  67 

Jeanne.  "  Honor  is  like  a  god,  a  god  which — " 
I'm  afraid  I  misquote  it,  and  spoil  the  effect. 

Duchess.  Keep  it,  my  child,  keep  it !  And  now 
you're  running  away  like  this  in  spite  of  the  beau- 
tiful line? 

Jeanne.  I  veiy  much  regret  having  to  leave. 
(Aside)  What  shall  I  say  ?  {Brightening)  Oh  !— 
it  was  either  that  t  was  so  uncomfortable  where  I 
was  sitting,  or  because  it  was  so  warm — I  don't 
feel  very  well ! 

Duchess.    Ah! 

Jeanne.  My  eyes  are — I  can't  see  straight — I 
have  a  headache 

Mme.  de  Ceran,  Duchess,  Roger.  {Rising)  A 
headache  ? ! 

Jeanne.  {Alarmed,  aside)  What's  the  matter 
with  them? 

Duchess.  {After  a  short  pause)  That's  not  sur- 
prising: there  is  an  epidemic  of  headaches. 

Jeanne.    You  have  one  too? 

Duchess.  I?  No!  One  doesn't  have  them  at 
my  age!    You  must  do  something  for  it,  my  child. 

Jeanne.  I'm  going  to  take  a  little  walk.  You'll 
excuse  me,  won't  you? 

Duchess.    Of  course;  by  all  means! 

Jeanne.  {Holding  her  head  between  her  hands, 
and  going  toward  the  door)  Oh,  how  it  aches! 
Ah!  {Aside)  Paul  will  find  an  excuse  to  get 
away!  {She  goes  out  through  the  door  leading  to 
the  garden) 

Duchess.  {To  Roger)  Do  you  think  so?  Do 
you  think  so? 

Roger.    Oh,  Aunt,  it's  only  a  coincidence ! 

Duchess.  Possibly ;  you  know  how  easily  one 
may  be  mistaken,  and  one  must  never — {The  door 
of  the  drawing-room  opens)     Ahh,  this  time! 

Voice  of  the  Poet.  {Heard  through  the  partially 
opened  door  as  before) 


68  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

"  And   though   there   were   a   hundred,   nay   a 

thousand " 

Duchess.    Euripides  is  still  at  it! 
Voice  of  the  Poet. 

**  Unarmed,  unaided,  would  I  brave  their  threats, 
And  make  the  cowards  own  their  cowardice ! " 

(Lucy  appears.) 

Mme.  de  Ceran  and  Roger.     Lucy! 

(Lucy  goes  to  the  door  leading  into  the  garden.) 

Duchess.  What,  Lucy,  why  did  you  leave  the 
reading? 

Lucy.  (Stopping)  I  beg  your  pardon;  I  didn't 
see  you  1 

Duchess.  And  yet  they  say  there  was  a  beauti- 
ful line : 

"  Honor  is  like  a  god " 


Lucy.  {Star ting  to  go)    *'  Like  a  god  which " 

Duchess.  Yes,  that's  the  one.  {The  clock 
strikes  ten.  Lucy  is  now  at  the  door)  And  in  spite 
of  that,  you  are  determined  to  go? 

Lucy.  Yes,  I  want  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  I  have 
a  headache.     {She  goes  out) 

Duchess,  Roger,  and  Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Sitting 
down)     Oh! 

Duchess.  Well,  well!  This  is  getting  interest- 
ing ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Another  coincidence! 

Duchess.  Another?  No,  not  this  time!  Don't 
you  think  so? — Then  all  of  them  are!  Except 
Suzanne's  case !  Come,  now,  there's  something  in 
the  air.  She  will  not  come !  I'm  willing  to  wager 
she  won't  come.  {The  draiving-room  door  opens 
suddenly,  and  through  it  is  heard  a  voice  in  the 
throes  of  tragic  agony) 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  69 

(Enter   Suzanne   hastily,   os   though   looking  for 

someone.) 

There  she  is ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Rising)  You  are  leaving  the 
reading,  Mademoiselle  1 

Suzanne.     (Impatiently)     Yes,  Cousin! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Stay  here! 

Suzanne.     But,  cousin 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Stay!     Sit  down! 

Suzanne.  (Dropping  on  to  a  piano-stool,  and 
abruptly  turning  to  each  person  who  addresses  her) 
Well? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  And  why,  may  I  ask,  did  you 
leave  the  reading? 

Suzanne.  Why  should  I  let  myself  be  bored  by 
that  old  gentleman's  reading? 

Roger.     Is  that  the  true  reason? 

Suzanne.  I  went  out  because  Lucy  went  out,  if 
you  must  know ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Miss  Watson,  Mademoiselle? 

Suzanne,  Yes,  indeed :  Miss  Watson,  the  pink 
of  perfection,  the  vara  avis,  she  may  do  as  she 
likes,  but  I ! 

Roger.    You,  Suzanne? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Let  me  speak  to  her!  But 
you.  Mademoiselle,  run  about  the  streets  alone — ! 

Suzanne.    The  way  Lucy  does! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  And  you  dress  most  out- 
rageously ! 

Suzanne.    The  way  Lucy  does! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  You  monopolise  M.  Bellac  and 
talk  to  him  affectedly 

Suzanne.  The  way  Lucy  does!  I  suppose  she 
doesn't  speak  to  him,  does  she?  And  to  Monsieur, 
too!     (Indicating  Roger) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Oh,  but  in  private!  You 
understand  me  perfectly. 

Suzanne.     Let's  not  talk  about  "in  private!'* 


70  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

When  anyone  has  a  secret,  he  'writes  it — (Aside  to 
Roger  between  her  teeth)  in  a  disguised  hand! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     What? 

Roger.  (Aside)     Aunt! 

Duchess.  (Aside)     Shh! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Well? 

Suzanne.  Well,  Lucy  speaks  to  whomever  she 
wishes ;  Lucy  goes  out  whenever  she  wants  to ; 
Lucy  dresses  just  as  she  likes.  I  want  to  do  just 
like  Lucy,  because  every  one  loves  her! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  And  do  you  know  why  every- 
one loves  her,  Mademoiselle?  Because,  in  spite  of 
her  plainness — a  necessary  consequence  of  her 
nationality — she  is  serious,  dignified  and  cultured — 

Suzanne.  (Rising)  And  what  about  me? 
Haven't  I  been  all  that  ?  For  the  last  six  months  up 
to  this  very  evening  at  five  o'clock,  I  v/orked  hard 
without  resting,  and  I  studied  as  much  as  she  did ; 
and  I  learned  as  much  as  she  did:  "  objective  "  and 
"  subjective"  and  all  that!!  And  what  good  did  it 
all  do  me?  Does  anyone  love  me  better  for  it? — 
Doesn't  everyone  always  treat  me  just  as  if  I  were 
a  little  girl?  Everyone!!  Everyone!!  (Looking 
sidewise  at  Roger)  Who  pays  any  attention  to  me? 
Suzanne,  Suzanne ! !  What  does  Suzanne  count 
for!  And  all  because  I'm  not  an  old  English 
woman ! — 

Roger.     Suzanne — !  *^ 

Suzanne.  Yes,  defend  her!  Oh,  I  know  what 
to  do  in  order  to  please  you !  Here !  ( Taking 
the  Duchess's  lorgnette  and  putting  it  up  to 
her  eyes  and  looking  through  it)  How  esthetic! 
Schopenhauer !  The  Ego,  the  non-Ego  !  Et  Cetera, 
tiyah !  nyah ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  We  can  dispense  with  your 
impertinence,  Mademoiselle ! 

Suzanne.  (Bowing  ceremoniously)  Thank  you, 
cousin ! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  71 

Jennie.     Certainly. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Yes,  impertinence!  and  your 
absurd  pranks 

Suzanne.  Well,  what  can  you  expect  from  a 
**  street  gamin  "  like  me !  No  wonder  I  don't  be- 
have any  better!  (A  little  excited)  Of  course  I 
misbehave !  I  do  it  on  purpose  and  I'll  continue  to 
do  it ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Not  under  my  roof! 

Suzanne.  I  did  go  out  with  Monsieur  Bellac, 
and  I  spoke  with  Monsieur  Bellac,  and  I  have  a 
secret  wth  Monisieur  Bellac! 

Roger.    You  dare ! 

Suzanne.  And  he  knows  more  than  you  do! 
And  he's  more  of  a  man  than  you  are !  And  I  like 
him  better  than  you !  I  love  him !  I  love  him !  I 
love  him ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  I  sincerely  hope  that  you  do 
not  realize  the  gravity  of  what  you  are  saying! 

Suzanne.     I  do  realise  it! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Then  listen  to  me  !  Before  you 
commit  any  more  of  the  follies  you  are  planning 
to  menace  us  with,  think  the  matter  over!  You, 
least  of  all,  Mademoiselle  de  Villiers,  can  afford  to 
have  a  scandal  connected  with  your  name ! 

Duchess.     Take  care,  take  care! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Well,  Duchess,  she  ought  to 
know,  at  least 

Suzanne.  {Holding  back  her  tears)     I  do  know! 

Duchess.    You  know?    What? 

Suzanne.  {Throwing  herself  into  the  Duchess's 
arms  and  crying)     Aunt !    Aunt ! 

Duchess.  There,  there,  Suzanne,  my  child !  {To 
Mme.  de  Ceran)  That  was  considerate  of  you — to 
start  that  hare!  {To  Suzanne)  There,  there,  what 
is  it  you  know?  {She  takes  Suzanne  on  her 
knees) 

Suzanne.  {Weeping  and  talking  at  the  same 
time)      W-Vv'hat?      I — I    don't   know!      But    I    do 


^2  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

know  there  is  something  against  me — and  there  has 
oeen  for  a  long  time ! — 

Duchess.    Why,  what  makes  you  think — ? 

Suzanne.  Nobody,  everybody — People  look  at 
you  and  whisper  and  stop  talking  when  you  come 
into  the  room  and  kiss  you,  and  call  you  poor  little 
thing! — If  you  think  children  don't  notice  those 
things ! 

Duchess.  {Wiping  her  eyes')     Now,  dear,  dear! 

Suzanne.  And  it  was  just  the  same  at  the  con- 
vent! I  knew  I  wasn't  like  the  other  girls.  Oh  I 
could  see  that.  They  always  talked  to  me  about 
my  father  and  my  mother,  and  why — ?  Because  I 
didn't  have  any !  And  once,  during  recess  I  was 
playing  with  a  girl ! — I  don't  remember  what  I'd 
done  to  her — She  was  furious — and  all  of  a  sudden 
she  called  me — "  Miss  Foundling !  "  She  didn't 
know  what  it  meant,  neither  did  I !  Her  mother  had 
told  her  the  word  in  speaking  about  me.  She  told 
me  afterward,  after  we  had  made  up. — Oh,  I  was 
so  unhappy !  (Sobbing)  We  looked  the  word  up 
in  the  dictionary  but  we  didn't  find  anything — or  we 
didn't  understand — {Angrily)  What  did  they  mean? 
What  have  I  done  that  makes  me  any  different  from 
anybody  else?  That  everything  I  do  is  bad?  Is  it 
my  fault? 

Duchess.  {Kissing  her)  No,  my  child,  no  my 
dear ! —  _ 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    I  am  sorry 

Suzanne.  {Sobbing)  Well  then,  why  does  every- 
body blame  me  if  it  isn't  my  fault?  Here  I  seem 
to  be  in  the  way !  I  know,  I  don't  want  to  stay  any 
longer.    I  am  going !    Nobody  loves  me ! 

Roger.  {Deeply  moved)  Why  do  you  say  that, 
Suzanne?    It's  not  so.    Everybody  here — I 

Suzanne.  {Angrily  as  she  rises)     Vou  ! 

Roger.     Yes,  I?    And  I  swear 

Suzanne.  You! — Go  away  from  me!  I  hate 
you  and  I  never  want  to  see  you  again  !    Ever !    Do 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  y^ 

you  hear!  {She  goes  toward  the  door  leading  into 
the  garden) 

Roger.  Suzanne !  Suzanne !  Where  are  you 
going? 

Suzanne..  Tm  going  for  a  walk!  For  that 
matter,  I  am  going  where  I  please ! 

Roger.    But  why  now?    Why  a^e  you  going  out? 

Suzanne.  Why?  {She  comes  down  to  him) 
Why??  {Looking  him  in  the  eye)  Why?  I  have  a 
headache  ! ! ! !     {All  rise.    Suzanne  goes  out.) 

Roger.  {Agitated)  Well,  Aunt,  it's  clear  now, 
isn't  it? 

Duchess.     Less  and  less! 

Roger.    I  shall  see  him  at  once! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Where  are  you  going? 

Roger.  Merely  to  do  as  my  aunt  has  suggested. — 
To  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  affair.  And  I  swear  if 
that  man — that  if  it's  true — if  he  has  dared — !  I ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  If  he  has  I  shall  show  him  the 
door! 

Roger.  If  he  has,  I  will  kill  him !  {He  goes  out, 
following  Suzanne) 

Duchess.  If  he  has — I'll  see  that  he  marries  her ! 
Only,  if  it  isn't  true — well,  we'll  see!  Come!  {She 
tries  to  make  Mme.  de  Ceran  go  out.  Loud  ap- 
plause is  heard  from  the  adjoining  room;  indistinct 
murmurs  of  conversation  and  moving  of  chairs) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Well, 

Duchess.  What's  that  I  hear?  Another  beauti- 
fulline?  No,  it's  the  end  of  the  act.  Quick,  before 
they  come  in ! ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     But  my  guests!? 

Duchess.  They'll  go  to  sleep  again  without  your 
help !     Come,  come  ! 

{They  qo  out. — The  door  at  the  hack  opens. 
Through  it  are  seen  guests  in  groups,  with  Des 
Millets  in  the  centre  of  one.) 


74  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Ladies.     Beautiful! — Great  Art! — Very  noble! 

Paul.  (On  the  threshold  of  the  door)  That  act 
is  charming!     Don't  you  think  so,  General? 

General.  (Yawning  caver nously)  Charming! 
Four  to  come ! 

(Paul  skilfully  maneuvers  so  that  he  reaches  the 
door  leading  to  the  garden  and  disappears 
through  it. ) 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III. 

Scene: — A  large  conservatory,  lighted  by  gas.  A 
tiny  fountain  playing  in  the  center  of  a  basin; 
furniture,  chairs,  clumps  of  shrubbery ;  large 
plants  behind  which  one  might  easily  slip  and 
hide. 

(The  Duchess  and  Mme.  de  Ceran  enter,  right. 
They  look  about  carefully  and  consult  together 
in  low  tones.) 

Duchess.     No  one? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    No  one. 

Duchess.  Good!  (She  walks  toward  the  center 
of  the  stage,  then  pauses)    Three  headaches ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  It's  atrocious  that  I  should  be 
forced  to  leave  the  poet  to 

Duchess.  Oh,  well,  your  poet  is  reading  his 
poetry!  A  poet  who  can  read  his  poems  is  happy 
enough ! 

Mme  de  Ceran.  But  Roger's  conduct  has  dis- 
turbed me!  I  have  never  seen  him  act  that  way. 
What  are  you  doing  there,  Aunt? 

Duchess.  I'm  stopping  the  water  so  that  I  can 
hear  better,  my  dear. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  75 

Mme.  DE  Ceran.    Why? 

Duchess.     So  that  I  can  hear  better,  my  dear! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  He  is  in  the  garden  somewhere 
— following  her,  watching  for  her — What  will  hap- 
pen?— Oh,  the  poor  little  thing! — Why,  Duchess! 
You  are  putting  out  the  gas  1 

Duchess.     No,  I'm  only  turning  it  down. 

M  M  E.  DE  Cera  n .    Why  ? 

Duchess.    So  that  I  can  see  better,  my  dear ! 

Mme.  DE  Ceran.    So — ? 

Duchess.  Heavens,  the  less  we  are  seen  the  more 
we'll  se-^.  Three  headaches? — and  only  one  rendez- 
vous !    Aren't  you  beginning  to  see,  my  dear? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  But  what  I  can't  understand  is 
that  Monsieur  Bellac 

Duchess.  And  what  I  can't  understand  is  that 
Suzanne 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Oh,  she 


Duchess.  She — ?  Well,  you'll  see!  They  may 
come  now  as  soon  as  they  wish — everything's  ready. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  If  Roger  finds  them  here — 
together — He  might- 


Duchess.  Bah !  Wait  till  you  see !  Wait  until 
you  see ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     But 

Duchess.     Shh!    Didn't  you  hear  something? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Yes! 

Duchess.  {Pushing  Madame  de  Ceran  tozvard 
the  plant  at  the  right,  down-stage)  Just  in  time! — 
Come ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    What,  you  are  going  to  listen? 

Duchess.  {Hidden)  I  should  think  so!  There 
is  nothing  else  to  be  done  but  to  listen !  There ! 
In  that  corner  we'll  be  snug  as  weasels.  If  it  be- 
comes necessary,  we  can  come  out,  rest  assured  of 
that!     Has  somebody  come  in? 

(Jeanne  enters  quietly.) 


76  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Looking  through  the  branches 
which  hide  her)     Yes! 

Duchess.     Which  of  the  two? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    It  is  she! 

Duchess.    Suzanne? 

Mme.  DE  Ceran.    Yes!     (Astonished)     No! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  No!  She's  not  in  decolletee. 
It's  someone  else! 

Duchess.    Someone  else?    Who? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    I  can't  distinguish ! 

Jeanne.    But  come  on,  Paul ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    The  little  Sub-prefect's  wife ! 

Duchess.    Again ! 

(Paul  enters,  right,  at  the  back.) 

Jeanne.  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  to  that 
door? 

Paul.  (Still  in  iJie  corner,  busied  with  some- 
thing) Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention! — I'm 
just  inventing  a  little  necessity. 

Jeanne.     What? 

Paul.    That ! 

Jeanne.     Eh?     (Nervously) 

Paul.     (Coming  in)     A  great  success  1 

Jeanne.    What  do  you  mean ? 

Paul.  That!  A  little  burglar  alarm  I've  just 
installed.  Yes,  a  piece  of  wood  in  the  door-hinge. 
By  this  means,  if  anyone  should  come — oh,  not  any 
one  in  love, — that  would  be  hardly  likely  in  this 
place ! — but  somebody  who  was  trying  to  take  refuge 
here  and  avoid  the  tragedy — there  wouldn't  be  any 
danger.  He  gives  the  door  a  push,  there  is  a  squeak 
and  we — whht ! — by  the  other  door,  eh?  Isn't  that 
a  clever  invention?  I  tell  you,  we  statesmen — ! 
And  now,  Madame,  since  we  are  at  last  sheltered 
from  the  eyes  of  the  world,  I  shed  the  responsi- 
bilities of  the  public  man :  the  private  citizen  reap- 
pears, and  is  ready  for  the  flight  of  sentiment  too 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  yj 

long  concealed ;  I  now  permit  you  to  call  me  Paul ! 

Jeanne.  Oh,  what  bliss!  You  are  too  good, 
PAUL  ! 

Paul.  I  am  good  because  I  am  at  peace ;  but, 
kissing  me  in  the  corridors  you  know, — the  way 
you  did  when  you  came  to  unpack  my  trunk, 
that 

Duchess.     (Aside)     So  it  was  they! 

Paul.    And  in  the  garden,  this  evening,  too, 

Duchess.    Agfain! 


■^to' 


Paul.  Never  again,  please !  It's  entirely  too 
imprudent  for  this  house! — And  what  a  place! 
Didn't  I  tell  you?  It's  a  shame  that  in  order  to 
become  a  Prefect  one  has  to  yawn  himself  to  death 
in  this  palace  of  boredom! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Eh !  ? 

Duchess.  (To  Madame  de  Ceran)  Listen  to 
that !    Listen  to  that ! 

Jeanne.  (Draiving  Paul  doivn  beside  her) 
Come,  dear! 

Paul.  (Sits  down,  then  gets  up  and  zvalks  about, 
agitated)  What  a  house!  And  the  hosts,  and  the 
guests,  and  everybody  else  !  And  Madame  Arriego ! 
And  that  poet!  And  the  Marquise!  And  that 
English  ice-berg!  And  Roger  the  wooden  man! 
The  Duchess  is  the  only  one  with  any  common- 
sense ! 

Duchess.    That  for  me ! 

Paul.  (With  conviction)  But  the  rest,  oh  my, 
oh  my! 

Duchess.    And  that  for  you  ! 

Jeanne.    Oh,  come,  dear,  sit  by  me! 

Paul.  (Seating  himself,  and  rising  again  as  be- 
fore) And  the  lectures  and  the  Literature!  And 
Revel's  candidacy !  Clever  old  fox  who  keeps  dying 
every  evening  and  coming  back  to  life  every  morn- 
ing! (He  starts  to  sit  dozvn,  then  he  pauses)  And 
Saint- Reault !  Ah!  Saint-Reault !  And  the 
Ramas-Ravanas  and  all  the  clap-trap  about  Buddha ! 


78  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED, 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     {Indignantly)     Oh! 

Duchess.  {Laughing  to  herself)  Oh,  he's 
funny ! 

Paul.  And  the  other  one,  he's  a  wonder !  Bellac 
of  the  many  conquests,  with  his  Platonic  love !  ! 

Jeanne.     {Dropping  her  eyes)     He's  silly! 

Paul.  {Sitting)  Don't  you  think  so?  And 
that  tragedy  !    Oh,  that  tragedy ! 

Jeanne.    But,  Paul,  what  is  it? 

Paul.  And  old  Phillippe-Auguste  with  his  beau- 
tiful verse!  Why,  everybody  has  written  verse! 
That's  no  reason  why  he  should  read  it !  Eve  done 
it  myself ! 

Jeanne.    You,  dear? 

Paul.  Yes,  I !  When  I  was  a  poor  student  I 
even  used  to  sell  it! 

Jeanne.    To  a  publisher? 

Paul.  No,  to  a  dentist !  "  The  Fill-iad,  Or  the 
Art  of  Filling  Teeth," — Poem  in  three  hundred 
lines ! — Thirty  Erancs — Listen ! 

Jeanne.     Oh,  no! 

Paul.     "  O   Muse,  be  there  an  ill,  to  man  the 
greatest  curse, 
Which  Heaven  in  its  wrath,  spreads  o'er  the  uni- 
verse. 
And  sorely,  you'll  admit,  O  muse,  good  taste  of- 
fends. 
It  is  that  one  which  oft  upon  the  teeth  descends ! — 

Jeanne.    Oh,  Paul! ! 

Paul.    **  Ah,  to  tear  out  that  tooth,  my  cup  of  joy 
were  full ! 
Nay,  friend,  it  can  be  cured,  stop!  do  not  let  them 

pull ! 
Oh,  never  pull  a  tooth,  e'en  when  it   rots — you'll 

rue  it! 
Let  it  be  filled ;  but  choose  a  clever  man  to  do  it ! 
Protect  that  little  tooth,  bi-cusped  or  incisor, 
'Twill  sweeten  every  meal — 'twill  make  your  smile 
seem  nicer !  " 


*t 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  79 

Duchess.     (Laughing)     Isn't  he  amusing! 

Jeanne.  What  nonsense  you  talk!  Who  would 
ever  believe  it  to  see  you  in  the  drawing-room ! 
{imitating  him)  Ah,  yes,  Monsieur  le  Senateur, 
the  tide  of  democracy — the  treaties  of  181 5 — Oh! 
Oh!    OH! 

Paul.  And  you,  dear!  You  certainly  have 
made  an  impression  on  the  hostess! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Hmmm? 

Paul.    My  compliments! 

Jeanne.  But,  deary,  I  only  did  what  you  sug- 
gested ! 

Paul.  (Imitating  her)  "  I  only  did  what  you 
suggested !  " — Ah,  little  liliss  Saintliness  with  her 
little  voice !  Oh,  you  filled  the  Countess  full ! — of 
Joubert  and  Latin  and  Tocqueville  and  your  own 
manufacture,  too ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    What,  her  own  manufacture? 

Duchess.    She  is  lovely !    I  like  her  all  the  more! 

Jeanne.  Well,  I  don't  feel  any  remorse — A  wo- 
man who  puts  us  in  different  rooms. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Rising)  And  suppose^  I  tell 
her  to  leave !  J\ 

Duchess.    Be  still !  ^ 

Jeanne.  And  it's  just  horrid  of  her!  Yes,  she 
does  it  on  purpose !  A  woman  knovv^s  very  well 
that  new-married  people  always — have  things  to  say 
to  each  other. 

Paul.     (Tenderly)    Yes,  always! 

Jeanne.     Always? — Really? — Always  like  this? 

Paul.  What  a  sweet  voice  you  have!  I  heard 
it  a  little  while  ago — talking  about  the  treaties  of 
181 5!  Soft,  sweet,  all-enveloping — Ah,  the  voice 
is  the  music  of  the  heart — as  Monsieur  de  Tocque- 
ville says  i 

Jeanne.  Oh,  Paul!  I  don't  like  you  to  laugh 
at  such  serious  things ! 

Paul.  Oh,  let  me  be  a  little  nonsensical,  please, 
dear!     I'm  so  happy  here!     By  Jove,  jiu-:i  now   I 


8o  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

don't  care  a  rap  whether  I'm  Prefect  of  Carcassonne 
or  not ! 

Jeanne.  It's  always  *'  just  now  "  with  me,  Mon- 
sieur!   That's  the  difference! 

Paul.    Dear  little  wife!     {He  kisses  her  hands) 

Mme.    de    Ceran.      But,    such    impropriety,    I 
nev 

Duchess.    I  can't  say  that  I  object  to  that! 

Paul.  I  have  a  lot  of  back  accounts  to  settle 
before  I  even  begin  to  collect  for  the  present! 
When  can  we  get  away  ?  Dear  little  girl,  you  don't 
know  how  I  adore  you ! 

Jeanne.    Yes,  I  know — I  can  judge  for  myself! 

Paul.    My  Jeanne ! 

Jeanne.  Oh,  Paul,  say  it  like  that  always! 
Always ! 

Paul.  Always!  {Close  to  her,  and  very 
tenderly) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    But,  Duchess!! 

Duchess.     Oh!     They're  married,  aren't  they! 

{The  door  squeaks;  Paul  and  Jeanne  spring  up, 

startled. ) 

Jeanne  awf/ Paul.    Eh? 

Jeanne.     Somebody's  coming! 

Paul.    We  must  flee ! — as  they  say  in  the  tragedy ! 

Jeanne.     Quick!    Quick! 

Paul.     You  see?     My  little  invention! 

Jeanne.  So  soon!  What  luck!  {They  go  out, 
right) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Going  left)  Well,  it  is  a  for- 
tunate thing  that  they  were  interrupted. 

Duchess.  {Following  her)  I'm  sorry  they 
went — but  the  funny  part  is  over  now ! 

(Bellac  enters  right,  at  the  hack;  Madame  de 
Ceran  and  the  Duchess  hide  themselves, 
left.) 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  8i 

Bellac.    What  a  noise  that  door  makes ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (To  the  Duchess,  as  before) 
Bellac ! 

Duchess.    Bellac ! 

Bellac.    One  can't  see  very  well  here! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  You  see,  it's  true! — Every- 
thing is  true ! 

Duchess.     Everything?     No! — Only  a  little  bit. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     The  rest  is  far  away. 

Duchess.  In  any  case,  it's  only  a  lark,  a  school- 
girl's frolic!  It  can't  be  that — (The  door  squeaks) 
There  she  is !  Oh  my,  how  my  heart  beats !  In 
things  like  this,  it's  better  to  be  sure ;  one  can  never 
tell — Can  you  see  her? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Peering  out)  Yes,  it's  she; 
Roger  will  be  here  in  a  moment,  on  the  look-out 
for  them — Hadn't  we  better  show  ourselves, 
Duchess  ? 

Duchess.  No,  no.  I  want  to  see  where  they 
stand.     I  want  to  catch  them  red-handed. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  (Still  looking)  I'm  dying  of 
suspense — Decolletee — It's  certainly  she. 

Duchess.  Oh,  the  little  coquette!  Let  me  see! 
(She  looks  through  the  leaves)    What's  that? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    What? 

Duchess.     Look! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Lucy ! 

Duchess.    Lucy ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    W'nat  does  that  mean? 

Duchess.     I  don't  know,  but  I  like  that  better! 

(Paul  and  Jeanne  re-enter,  and  Bellac  and  Lucy 
conceal  themselves,  right.  Jeanne  is  behind 
Paul,  holding  him  back.) 

Jeanne.     (To  Paul)     No,  no,  Paul,  no! 

Paul.  Yes,  yes !  Let  me  go  a  second !  I  want 
to  see!  Nobody  could  be  here  but  lovers,  at  this 
hour; — and  yet,  in  this  house!  No,  that  would  be 
too  much ! 


82  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Jeanne.    Take  care! 

Paul.     Shhh ! 

Lucy.     Are  you  there,  Monsieur  Bellac? 

Paul.    The  EngHsh  girl ! 

Bellac.    Yes,  Mademoiselle ! 

Paul.  And  the  Professor — The  English  girl 
and  the  Professor !  It's  impossible !  Scandal ! 
Would  you  believe  it !  An  intrigue ! — A  rendez- 
vous !    We'll  stay  riglit  here  and  see  what  happens ! 

Jeanne.    What? 

Paul.  After  this,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you 
want  to  go  ? 

Jeanne.  Oh,  no!  {They  hide  themselves  he- 
hind  the  plants,  at  the  hack,  left) 

Lucy.    Are  you  on  this  side? 

Bellac.  Here ! — I  beg  your  pardon !  The  con- 
servatory is  usually  better  lighted — I  don't  know 
why,  this  evening — {He  walks  toward  her) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Aside  to  the  Duchess) 
Lucy! — But  what  about  Suzanne?  I'm  sure  I 
can't  make  it  out! 

Duchess.    Wait  a  while;  we'll  soon  find  out. 

Lucy.  But,  M.  Bellac,  what  do  you  mean  by 
this?  And  your  letter  this  morning?  W^hy  did  you 
write  me? 

Bellac.  Because  I  wanted  to  talk  with  you,  my 
dear  Miss  Lucy.  Is  this  the  first  time  we  have  left 
the  others  and  talked,  and  exchanged  ideas?. 

Paul.  {Struggling  to  control  his  laughter)  Oh, 
exchange  ideas!  I  never  heard  it  called  that  be- 
fore! 

Bellac.  Surrounded  as  I  am  here,  what  other 
means  had  I  of  speaking  with  you,  alone  ? 

Lucy.  What  other  means?  You  might  simply 
offer  me  your  arm  and  leave  the  room  with  me. 
I'm  no  French  girl ! 

Bellac.    But  you  are  in  France. 

Lucy.  I  may  be  in  France,  but  I  still  do  as  I 
please.     I  have  no  use  for  secrets,  much  less  such 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  83 

mysteries  as  this!  You  disguise  your  handwriting, 
you  did  not  sign  your  name,  you  even  wrote  on 
pink  paper — how  French  you  are ! 

Paul.     (Aside  to  Jeanne)     He's  a  born  villain! 

Bellac.  How  wonderful  you  are,  austere  Muse 
of  Knowledge,  superb  Polymnia,  proud  nymph  of 
the  cold  Pierian  Spring — please  sit  down  ! 

Lucy.  No,  no!  Now  see  what  all  your  pre- 
cautions have  come  to :     I  have  lost  that  letter ! 

Duchess.     (Rather  loudly)     I  see ! 

(Lucy  starts.) 

Bellac.    What  is  it? 
Lucy.    Didn't  you  hear- 


_? 


Bellac.     No. — You  say  you  lost- 

LucY.  What  do  you  suppose  the  finder  of  that 
letter  will  think? 

Duchess.  (Aside  to  Mme.  de  Ceran)  Now  do 
you  understand? 

Lucy.  Of  course;  there  was  no  envelope  or  ad- 
dress  

Bellac.  Nor  my  handwriting  nor  my  signature. 
You  see  I  wasn't  so  stupid  after  all !  In  any  case, 
my  intentions  were  good,  my  dear  Miss  Lucy.  For- 
give your  Professor,  your  friend,  and — and — Sit 
down,  please ! 

Lucy.  No !  Tell  me  what  you  have  to  tell  me 
with  so  much  secrecy,  and  we'll  return  to  the  draw- 
ing-room ! 

Bellac.  (Retaining  her)  Wait!  Why  didn't 
you  come  to  my  lecture  this  afternoon? 

Lucy.  Simply  because  I  spent  my  time  looking 
for  that  letter.    What  have  you  to  say  to  me,  now? 

Bellac.  Are  you  very  anxious  to  leave  me? 
(He  gives  her  a  packet  of  papers  tied  zvith  a  red 
ribbon)     There! 

Lucy.    The  proofs ! 

Bellac.     (Agitated)     Of  my  book! 


§4  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Lucy.  (Also  moved)  Of  your — ?  Oh,  M. 
Bellac! 

Bellac.  It  was  my  wish  to  have  you  see  it  be- 
fore anyone  else!    You  only! 

Lucy.  (Taking  his  hand  effusively)  Oh,  my 
dear  friend!    My  dear  friend! 

Paul.  (As  before)  Oh  my,  what  a  gift  of 
love! 

(Bellac  moves  a  little  to  the  left.) 

Lucy.    What  is  it? 

Bellac.  Nothing — nothing. — I  thought — Read 
this  book  in  which  I  have  put  my  inmost  thoughts, 
and  you  v/ill  find  that  we  are  in  perfect  accord,  I 
am  sure — except  upon  one  point — Oh,  that  ques- 
tion  ! 

Lucy.    Which? 

Bellac.  (Tenderly)  Is  it  possible  that  you 
really  do  not  believe  in  Platonic  love? 

Lucy.    I  ?    Not  in  the  least  I 

Bellac.  (Graciously)  Very  well,  but  what  of 
our  relations ? 

Lucy.    (Simply)    Our  relations ?    Friendship! 

Bellac.  (Playing  with  the  idea)  I  beg  your 
pardon !    More  than  friendship,  better  than  love ! 

Lucy.  Well,  if  it's  more  than  the  one  and  better 
than  the  other,  then  it's  neither!  And  now,  thank 
you  once  more ;  thank  you  a  thousand  times !  But 
let  us  go  back,  shan't  we?    (She  starts  to  go) 

Bellac.     (Retaining  her)     Wait  a  moment! 

Lucy.    No,  no,  let  us  go  back ! 

Paul.     (To  Jeanne)     She  won't  take  the  bait! 

Bellac.  (Always  holding  her  hack)  Please 
wait,  I  beg  you ! — Two  words !  Two  words !  Ex- 
plain to  me,  tell  me — it's  worth  the  trouble !  Come, 
Lucy! 

Lucy.  Come,  Bellac!  (Becoming  animated,  as 
she  passes  to  the  right)     But  see,  my  friend,  listen, 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  85 

M.   Bellac — your   Platonic   love   has   absolutely   no 
philosophical  basis 

Bellac.  Pardon  me,  that  love  is  a  kind  of  friend- 
ship  

Lucy.     If  it's  friendship  it  is  no  longer  love. 

Bellac.     But  it's  a  double  concept ! 

Lucy.    If  it's  double,  it  cannot  be  a  unit! 

Bellac.  But  there  is  a  fusion !  (He  seats  him' 
self) 

Lucy.  If  it  is  a  fusion,  it  has  no  longer  an  in- 
dividuality. I'll  explain  my  meaning — !  {She 
seats  herself) 

Paul.    (To  Jeanne)     She's  swallowed  the  hook! 

Lucy.  I  deny  that  any  fusion  is  possible  between 
love,  which  is  based  upon  indivisibility,  and  friend- 
ship, which  is  largely  composed  of  sympathy ;  that 
is  to  say,  that  in  which  the  Ego  becomes,  in  a  way, 
the  Non-Ego.    I  deny  absolutely,  absolutely ! 

Duchess.  (To  Mme.  de  Ceran)  I  have  often 
heard  people  talk  about  love,  but  never  that  way! 

Bellac.    But,  Lucy 

Lucy.  But,  Bellac — Yes  or  no,  the  principal 
factor 

Bellac.  But,  Lucy — Here's  an  example :  sup- 
pose two  beings,  two  abstractions,  two  entities — any 
man,  any  woman, — who  love  each  other,  but  with 
an  ordinary  physiological  love — you  follow  me? 

Lucy.     Perfectly ! 

Bellac.  Let  us  suppose  these  two  in  the  follow- 
ing circumstances ;  they  are  alone  at  night,  together 
— what  would  happen  ? 

Duchess.  (To  Madame  de  Ceran)  I  don't 
know,  do  you? 

Bellac.  Without  fail — now  pay  close  attention — 
without  fail,  this  phenomenon  will  take  place. 

Jeanne.     (To  Paul)     It's  so  funny! 

Paul.     Do  you  think  so,  Madame? 

Bellac.  Both  of  them,  or  more  probably,  one 
of  them — the  man— — 


86  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Paul.     {To  Jeanne)     The  male  entity! 

Bellac.  Would  approach  her  whom  he  believes 
he  loves — {He  approaches  her) 

Lucy.     {Drazuing  back  a  little)     But 

Bellac.  {Gently  holding  her)  No,  no,  you'll 
see !  They  gaze  fixedly  into  each  other's  eyes,  she 
feels  his  breath  on  her  cheek,  her  hair  brushes 
against  his  face 

Lucy.     But,  M.  Bellac 

Bellac.  And  then — and  then,  their  Egoes  mingle 
— independently  of  the  Ego  itself,  an  uninterrupted 
series  of  involuntary  acts  which,  by  a  natural  suc- 
cession, progressing  slowly  and  inevitably,  hurls 
them,  if  I  may  be  permitted  the  expression,  into  the 
maelstrom  which,  though  foreseen,  cannot  be 
avoided — in  which  Reason  and  vSoul  are  powerless! 

Lucy.     One  moment !     This  process 

Bellac.  Listen,  listen — !  Suppose  now  another 
couple  and  another  love :  a  psychological,  not  a 
physiological  love — an  exception ; — you  still  follow 
me? 

Lucy.    Yes. 

Bellac.  These  two,  seated  side  by  s'de,  come 
nearer  to  each  other 

Lucy.  {Drawing  away)  But  that's  the  very 
same  thing. 

Bellac.  {Bringing  her  back)  Listen  to  me: 
there  is  the  slightest  shade  of  difference.  -Let  me 
illustrate :  they  too  gaze  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 
they  too 

Lucy.    Well — ?     {She  rises) 

Bellac.  {Making  her  sit  doivn)  But — but — 
They  are  oblivious  of  physical  beauty :  it  is  their 
souls  which  commune.  They  no  longer  hear  each 
other's  voices,  but  rather  the  palpitation  of  their 
thoughts !  And  then,  fmally,  by  an  entirely  different 
process — though  springing  from  the  same  source — 
they  too  arrive  at  that  obscure  and  turbulent  state 
of  mind  in  which  the  being  is  ignorant  even  of  its 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  Sy 

own  existence — a  delicious  atrophy  of  the  Will 
which  seems  the  suynmum  and  the  tcvyninus  of  hu- 
man happiness ;  they  leave  the  earth  to  awaken  in 
a  free  Heaven,  for  their  love  transports  them  far 
above  the  murky  clouds  of  earthly  passion  into  the 
pure  Ether  of  the  sublimely  Ideal!     {A  pause) 

Paul.      {To  Jeanne)      They're  going  to  kiss! 

Bellac.  Lucy ! !  Dear  Lucy,  don't  you  under- 
stand?   Say  that  you  understand  me ! 

Lucy.  {Troubled)  But — it  seems  to  me  that 
these  two  concepts 

Paul.     Oh,  the  concepts  !    That's  too  much ! 

Lucy.    The  two  concepts  are  identical. 

Bellac.  {Passionately)  Identical?!  Oh,  Lucy, 
you  are  cruel !  Identical !  ?  You  must  understand 
that  in  this  case  it  is  entirely  subjective. 

Paul.     Subjective!     Oh,  I  say! 

Bellac.  {Groining  more  exeited)  Subjective! 
Lucy !    You  must  understand  me ! 

Lucy.  {Greatly  moved)  But,  Bellac — subjec- 
tive ! 

Jeanne.     {To  Paul)     He'll  never  kiss  her! 

Paul.     Then  I'll  kiss  you ! 

Jeanne.     {Defending  herself)     Paul !     Paul ! 

{Kisses  are  heard.) 

Bellac  and  Lucy.  {Getting  up.  frightened) 
What ? 

Duchess.  {Astonished;  rising)  What's  this? 
Are  they  kissing? 

Lucy.    Someone — someone's  there! 

Bellac.    Come,  take  my  hand  ! 

Lucy.    There's  someone  listening!     I'm  sure! 

Bellac.     Come ! 

Lucy.  I'm  fearfully  compromised!  {She  goes 
out  at  the  baek,  left) 

Bellac.  {FollozK.'ing  her)  I'll  do  all  in  my 
power — {He  follozcs  her  out) 


88  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Paul.  (IVho,  with  Jeanne,  comes  out  from  the 
hiding-place)    Platonic  love !    Ha!    Ha! 

Duchess.     {Aside)     Raymond! 

Jeanne.  The  Ego !  The  process !  The  ter- 
minus!   Ha!    Ha! 

Duchess.  {Leaz'ing  her  hiding-place;  aside) 
Naughty  children !  Just  wait !  ( Quietly  approach- 
ing them) 

Paul.  Oh,  he's  a  regular  Tartufe,*  with  his 
double-meanings!  (Imitating  Bellac)  "My 
dear  Mademoiselle ;  Love  is  a  double  concept  " 

Jeanne.  (Imitating  Lucy)  "  But  the  principal 
factor  " 

Paul.     "  But,  Lucy  " 

Jeanne.     "  But,  Bellac  " 

Paul.  "  But  there  is  the  slightest  shade  of  a  dif- 
ference— Let  me  illustrate  " 

Jeanne.    ''  But  they  are  identical." 

Paul.  *'  Identical !  You  are  cruel !  It  is  en- 
tirely subjective." 

Jeanne.    "  Oh,  Bellac,  subjective." 

(The  Duchess  imitates  the  sound  of  kisses  by  clap- 
ping her  hands.)  ^ 

Paul  and  Jeannne.  (Rising  in  alarm) 
What ? 

Jeanne.     Someone !  ~- 

Paul.     Caught ! 

Jeanne.     Someone  has  been  listening! 

Paul.     (Trying  to  take  her  away)     Come,  come! 

Jeanne.  (As  they  go  out)  Perhaps  they  heard 
what  we  said  before ! 

Paul.  "  I'll  do  all  in  my  power" — !  [They  go 
out  left) 

Duchess.  (Laughing)  Ha!  Ha!  Those 
ridiculous  children!    They're  nice,  but  they  deserve 

♦The  principal  character  in  MoHore's  famous  comedy,  "  Tartufe," 
a  hypocrite,  whose  name  has  become  proverbial. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  89 

a  lesson  !  I  have  to  laugh  ! — Oh — Lucy — think  of 
it ! — She's  all  right !  Ah,  well,  now  do  you  see  how 
matters  stand !  Suzanne — the  rendezvous — the  let- 
ter  

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Oh,  it  was  Bellac's  letter  to 
Lucy  that  Suzanne  found ! 

Duchess.  She  thought  it  was  Roger's  letter  to 
Lucy;  that  is  why  she  was  so  jealous,  so  furious! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Jealous?  You  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  she  loves  my  son? 

Duchess.  Do  you  still  want  him  to  marry  the 
other  girl? 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  The  other  girl?  Certainly  not ! 
But  never  Suzanne,  Aunt,  never ! 

Duchess.  V\'e  haven't  come  to  that  yet !  Mean- 
while, go  and  take  care  of  your  tragic  poet,  and 
Revel's  successor !  Til  find  your  son  for  you,  and 
see  that  he  gets  back  his  honor !  All's  well  that  ends 
well !  Well  I'm  at  ease  now,  after  all  this  ado  about 
nothing !    But  now  it's  over ;  let's  go ! 

{They  are  about  to  go  out,  left,  token  the  door  at 
the  right  opens.) 

Duchess  and  Mme.  de  Ceran.    What's  this ? 

Duchess.  Again !  ?  Your  Conservatory  is  thick 
with  them  !    This  is  lovely  ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Who  else  can  it  be  ? 

Duchess.  Who?  {Struck  zvith  an  idea)  Oh! 
{To  Mme.  de  Ceran,  placing  her  in  a  corner,  left) 
Go  back  to  the  drawing-room;   I'll  tell  you  later. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    But,  I 

Duchess.  You  can't  leave  your  guests  all 
evening ! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Trying  to  see  the  nezvcomers) 
Who  can  it  be ? 

Duchess.  {Still  urging  her  out)  Til  tell  you 
everything.    Quick  now,  before — You  can't 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  That's  so.  I'll  come  back  for 
the  tea. 


90  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Duchess.    Yes,  do  that!    Quick,  quick,  now! 

(Mme.  de  Ceran  goes  out,  left.) 

Duchess.  Who  can  it  be?  Roger,  who  is  spying 
on  Suzanne,  or  Suzanne,  who  is  spying  on  Roger — 
{Looking  to  the  right)  Yes,  it's  he,  my  Bartholo — 
{Looking  to  the  left)  And  my  Httle  jealous  girl, 
who  thinks  Roger  is  with  Lucy,  and  who  would  like 
to  see  how  things  are  coming  on.  That's  it.  Head- 
ache number  three  :  total  quite  correct !  Oh,  if  For- 
tune doesn't  make  something  out  of  this,  she  is  in- 
sufferably stupid!  {Carefully  turning  down  the 
gas)     We  need  a  little  added  effect! 

{Enter  Suzanne.) 

Suzanne.  {Hiding)  I  knew  very  well  when 
he  had  finished  walking  around  the  garden  he  would 
end  here  in  the  conservatory ;  he  couldn't  miss  it ! 

(Roger  enters.) 

Roger.  {As  he  hides)  She's  here,  I  saw  her 
come  in  1  I  knew  very  well  when  she  had  finished 
walking  around  the  garden  she  would  end  here 
in  the  conservatory ! — Now  I  know  what  to  expect ! 

Duchess.    Hide-and-seek ! 

Suzanne.  {Listening)  It  seems  that — his  En- 
glish lady  is  late ! 

Roger.  {Listening)  Ahh  1  Bellac  isn't  here 
yet! 

Duchess.  They'll  keep  this  up  forever  unless  I 
stop  it ! — Sst  1 

Roger.  She's  giving  him  a  signal — Oh,  if  I  only 
dared,  I'd  take  his  place,  since  he  hasn't  come. 
That's  the  way  to  find  out  how  they  feel  toward 
one  another ! 

Duchess.     {Aside)    Come,  come! — Sst! 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  91 

Roger.  Well,  I  might  as  well  learn  what  I  can! 
— Ssst ! 

Duchess.     Well ! 

Suzanne.  He  thinks  Vm  Lucy! — Oh,  I  should 
like  to  know  what  he'd  say  to  her ! 

Roger.     (In  an  undertone)    Is  it  you? 

Suzanne.  (Softly)  Yes!  (Aside;  resolutely) 
I'll  do  it ! 

Roger.     She  thinks  I'm  Bellac ! 

Duchess.  Ahh!— Good!  They're  off!  (She 
disappears  behind  the  plants  at  the  back,  left) 

Roger.    Did  you  get  my  letter? 

Suzanne.  (Aside;  angrily)  Yes,  I  got  your 
letter !  I  got  it !  And  you  had  no  idea  that  I  did, 
either!  (To  Roger;  szveetly)  How  else  should  I 
have  come  to  meet  you ? 

Roger.  (Aside)  "  Meet  you  " — !  This  is  plain 
■enough  ! — Oh,  the  poor  child — Now  we'll  see  ! — (To 
Suzanne)  I  was  so  afraid  you  wouldn't  come, 
my  dear 

Suzanne.  (Aside)  "My  dear!"  Oh!  (To 
Roger)  And  yet  you  saw  me  leave  the  drawing- 
room  a  moment  ago,  my  dear ! 

Roger.  (Aside)  They're  on  very  familiar  terms, 
aren't  they?  There's  no  denying  that!  I've  got  to 
know — !  (To  Suzanne)  Why  don't  you  come 
nearer?     (He  approaches  her) 

Suzanne.  (Aside)  Oh,  he'll  notice  that  I'm 
sm.aller  than  Lucy.    (She  sits  down)    This  way 

Roger.    Would  you  like  me  to  sit  beside  you  ? 

Suzanne.    Very  much! 

Roger.  (Aside)  Oh-ho!  ''Very  much!" 
Strange  she  does  take  me  for  Bellac !  My  voice 
is  nothing  like  his — well,  let's  see  how  this  will  come 
out? — (He  sits  beside  her  and^  turning  his  back) 
How  good  of  you  to  come! — You  love  me  just  a 
little  bit,  dear? 

Suzanne.     (Turning  her  back  to  him)     Oh,  yes! 


92  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Roger.  (Aside;  as  he  rises)  She  loves  him! 
Oh,  the  villain,  the  rascal ! 

Suzanne.      (Aside)      What's   the   matter   with 

him? 

Roger.  (Sitting  beside  her  again)  Let  me  be 
near  you,  as  I  used  to  be!     (He  takes  her  hand) 

Suzanne.  (Aside,  indignantly)  He's  taking  her 
hand! 

Roger.  (Aside,  indignantly)  She  lets  him  take 
her  hand  !    It's  horrible ! 

Suzanne.    Oh! 

Roger.     You're  trembling! 

Suzanne.    Why — You're  trembling 

Roger.  No,  it's  you! — Can  it  be — ?  (Aside) 
We'll  see!     (To  Suzanne)     Are  you  afraid? 

Suzanne.  (Aside,  indignantly,  as  she  rises) 
"  You !  "  * 

Roger.  (Aside,  breathing  heavily)  Well,  they 
haven't  got  that  far  anyway? 

(Suzanne  conies  hack,  resolutely,  and  reseats  her- 
self near  him  in  silence.) 

Roger.  (Aside,  agitated)  What?  More? 
Well ! — (Aside)    Then  you're  not  afraid ? 

Suzanne.    Afraid?    With  you? 

Roger.  (Aside)  With — !  So  the  cad  has  gone 
as  far  as  that!  I'll  get  to  the  bottom  of  this!  It's 
my  duty!  Her  moral  welfare  is  in  my  hands.  (To 
Suzanne)  Well !  In  that  case,  why  do  you  avoid 
me?    (He  draws  her  to  him) 

Suzanne.     (Outraged)     Oh! 

Roger.  Why  do  you  turn  from  me?  (He  puts 
his  arm  around  her) 

Suzanne,     Oh!! 

Roger.  WHiy  do  you  deny  me  your  lips?  (He 
leans  over  her) 

*  Rofirer  uses  the  familiar  "  tu."— Tr. 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  93 

Suzanne.  (Springing  to  her  feet)  This  is  too 
much ! 

Roger.    This  is  too  much ! 

Suzanne.  Look  at  me — Suzanne! — Not  Lucy, 
but  Suzanne!    Do  you  hear? 

Roger.  And  this  is  Roger!  Not  Bellac,  but 
Roger,  do  you  hear? 

vSuzanne.     Bellac? 

Roger.  My  poor  child !  Then  it  was  true  ?  Oh, 
Suzanne,  Suzanne !  How  you  have  wounded  me ! — 
Well,  he's  coming, — I'll  wait  for  him ! 

Suzanne.     Who? 

Roger.    Don't  you  understand,  I  read  the  letter! 

Suzanne.    The  letter? — I  read  your  letter! 

Roger.    My  letter?    Bellac's  letter? 

Suzanne.    Bellac's? — It  was  from  you! 

Roger.    From  me? 

Suzanne.     From  you!     To  Lucy! 

Roger.  To  Lucy  ?  No !  To  you !  To  You !  To 
you! 

Suzanne.    To  Lucy!    Lucy!    Lucy,  who  lost  it! 

Roger.     {Astonished)     Lost  it! 

Suzanne.  I  was  there  when  she  was  asking  the 
servant  about  it!  You  don't  mean  to  say — ?  And 
/  found  it. 

Roger.     {Understanding)     You  found  it? 

Suzanne.  Yes,  and  I  knew  everything! — Head- 
ache, and  rendezvous  and  all  that.  And  I  wanted 
to  see ;  so  I  came  and  you  took  me  for  her 

Roger.    I  ? 

Suzanne.  {Keeping  back  her  tears)  Yes,  you! 
you ! — You  took  me  for  her,  you  told  her  you  loved 
her ! — Yes,  you  did ! — Then  why  did  you  tell  me 
you  didn't  love  her — You  told  me  just  now — and 
that  you  weren't  going  to  marry  her. — Why  did  you 
tell  me  that!  You  shouldn't  have  done  that! 
Marry  her  if  you  want; — but  you  shouldn't  have 
told  me.  That  wasn't  right — if  you  loved  her — you 
shouldn't   have — (Throzving  herself  in   his  arms) 


94  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

You  shouldn't  have!  Oh,  don't  marry  her!  Don't 
marr}'^  her ! 

Roger.  Oh,  my  dear  Suzanne!  How  happy  I 
am! 

Suzanne.    What? 

Roger.  Then  that  letter  you  found  wasn't  sent 
to  you? 

Suzanne.    To  me? 

Roger.    I  didn't  send  it — I  swear ! 

Suzanne.    But  I 

Roger.  I  swear !  It  was  sent  to  Lucy  by  Bellac ! 
Now  I  understand,  you  thought — just  as  I  did — Oh, 
I  see  everything  now ! — Oh,  my  dear  Suzanne,  what 
an  awful  fright  you  gave  me !     It  was  fearful ! 

Suzanne.     But  what  about? 

Roger.  What  about?  Oh — It's  absurd — don't 
ask — it  was  base  of  me.  Forgive  me,  I  beg  you, 
forgive  me! 

Suzanne.    Then  you're  not  going  to  marry  her? 

Roger.    But  I'm  telling  you ! 

Suzanne.  Then  I  don't  understand  at  all.  Only 
tell  me  you  won't  marry  her,  and  I'll  believe  you. 

Roger.  Of  course  I  won't — What  a  child  you 
are! — Don't  cry,  wipe  your  eyes,  my  dear  Suzanne, 
there's  nothing  to  cry  about ! 

Suzanne.     I  can't  help  it! 

Roger.    Why  ? 

Suzanne.  I  have  only  you  in  the  world — I  don't 
want  you  to  leave  me ! 

Roger.    Leave  you? 

Suzanne.  (Sobbing)  You  know  how  jealous 
I  am.  You — you  can't  understand  that !  I  saw  this 
evening,  when  I  tried  to  make  you  jealous  by  talk- 
ing with  M.  Bellac  you  didn't  seem  to  care  at  all. 
You  didn't  care  anything  about  me ! 

Roger.    I  wanted  to  kill  him ! 

Suzanne.  To  kill  him?  (Piits  her  arms  around 
his  neck)  How  nice  you  are! — Then  you 
thought ? 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  95 

Roger.  Let's  not  say  any  more  about  that,  it's 
all  over,  forgotten,  the  past  is  dead.  Let's  begin 
all  over  again :  from  my  arrival — How  are  you, 
Suzanne?  How  are  you,  dear?  It's  been  so  long 
since  I've  seen  you  !  Come  to  me,  dear,  the  way  you 
used  to!     (He  seats  himself  with  her  beside  him) 

Suzanne.  Oh,  Roger,  how  nice  you  are !  What 
lovely  things  you  say !  You  love  me  better  than  you 
love  her,  then? 

Roger.  (JVith  feeling)  Love  you!  But  isn't 
it  my  duty  to  love  you?  As  a  relative,  as  a  tutor, 
as  an  honest  man?  Love  you!  When  I  read  that 
letter  I  don't  know  what  happened  to  me — then  I 
understand  how  deep  my  feelings  were — yes,  I  love 
you,  my  dear  cliild,  my  divine  creature  I  More  than 
I  ever  imagined  I  did!  And  I  want  you  to  know — 
(Tenderly) — don't  you  feel  that  I  love  you  deeply, 
dear  little  Suzanne? 

Suzanne.  (A  little  surprised  at  his  vehemence) 
Yes — Roger 


Roger.  The  way  you  look  at  me — I  frightened 
you — you  don't  believe  me — I'm  not  used  to — I'm 
not  used  to  saying  tender  things,  I'm  awkward — I 
don't  know  how  to  say  those  things — one's  emotions 
are  influenced  by  maternal  training  and  you  know 
my  mother ;  she  has  made  a  drya^ust  scientist  of 
me.  Science  has  been  my  sole  preoccupation — You 
have  been  my  sole  distraction — the  one  ray  of  sun- 
shine in  my  dreary  youth — You  have  only  me  and 
I  have  only  you — and  I,  my  dear  child,  whom  else 
have  I  to  love  but  you  ? — And  I  didn't  know !  You 
have  charmed  me  ?3  one  is  charmed  by  a  child! — 
With  your  simplicity,  with  your  grace !  I  was  your 
teacher,  but  your  pupil  as  well.  While  I  was  nurs- 
ing your  mind  to  blossom  forth  into  thought,  you 
were  planting  seeds  of  tenderness  in  my  heart.  I 
taught  you  to  read,  you  taught  me  to — love !  It  was 
your  tiny  pink  fingers,  the  silk  of  your  golden  hair 
that  woke  my  heart  to  its  first  kisses !     You  crept 


96  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

into  my  heart  then,  and  you  have  grown  now  until 
your  soul  has  filled  mine!  (Pause)  Now  do  you 
believe  me? 

Suzanne.  (Moved,  she  ri^es  and  speaks  in  a  low 
voice)     Let's  go! 

Roger.    Why  ? — Where  ? 

Suzanne.     (Troubled)     Away  from  here 

Roger.    But  why  ? 

Suzanne.    It's  so  dark! 

Roger.    But,  just  a  moment  ago 

Suzanne.  A  moment  ago  I  didn't  see  what  you 
meant 

Roger.  No,  stay,  stay !  There's  no  better  place 
than  this.  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you.  My  heart 
is  so  full !  I  don't  know  why  I  tell  you  all  this — 
It's  true — It's  so  good  to  say  these  things — Ah, 
Suzanne — stay! — Dear  Suzanne — (He  holds  her) 

Suzanne.     No,  I  beg  you  ! 

Roger.    Youf  * 

Suzanne.  (More  and  more  troubled)  I — beg 
you 

Roger.     But  only  a  moment  ago 

Suzanne.     Yes,  but  now 

Roger.     Why  ? 

Suzanne.     I  don't  know, — I 

Roger.    You're  crying !    Have  I  hurt  you  ? 

Suzanne.     No!     No! 

Roger.  Have  I  offended  you,  without  knowing 
it—? 

Suzanne.  No,  no, — I  don't  know.  I  don't 
understand.     Please,  let's  go  away  from  here ! 

Roger.  Suzanne  I — I  don't  understand  ! — I  can't 
see  !— 

(The  DucHF^s  appears.) 

Duchess.     And  do  you   know   why?     It  is  be- 
*  She  uses  the  formal  "  vous." 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  97 

cause  neither  of  you  can  see  what's  as  clear  as  day ! 
{She  turns  up  the  gas)     There! 

Roger.     Aunt ! 

Duchess.  My  dear  children,  how  happy  you 
make  me !     Go  on,  kiss  your  bride ! 

Roger.  (Not  understanding  at  first)  My  bride 
— Suzanne!  (He  looks  at  his  aunt,  then  at 
Suzanne)     Ohh !     It's  true, — I  love  her! 

Duchess.  (Joyously)  Nonsense!  Even  when 
it's  as  clear  as  day?  (To  Suzanne)  And  how 
about  you? 

Suzanne.      (JVith  dozvncast  eyes)     Oh,  Aunt! 

Duchess.  It  seemed — that  you  could  see  all 
the  time !  Women's  eyes  are  a  little  better  than 
men's,  eh?  That  idea  of  mine  to  turn  down  the 
gas  was  splendid.  So  everytliing's  going  nicely 
now?    Well,  there  is  only  your  mother  to  see! 

Roger.     What  ? 

Duchess.  Oh,  it  will  be  a  little  difficult! — 
Here  she  is !  Here  they  all  come — The  whole 
tragedy !  Shh !  Not  a  word !  Leave  everything 
in  my  hands,  I'll  take  care  of  it.     What's  all  this? 

{Enter  Madame  de  Ceran,  des  Millets,  sur- 
rounded by  ladies,  the  General,  Bellac, 
Lucy,  Madame  de  Loudan,  Madame  Ar- 
riego,  Paul  and  Jeanne;  and  the  others.) 

Mme.  de  Ceran,     Great  news,  Aunt ! 
Duchess.    What? 
Mme.  de  Ceran.     Revel  is  dead! 
Duchess.     You're  fooling!   ^ 
Mme.   de   Ceran.      It's    in   the   evening   papers. 
Look!      (She  hands  her  a  paper) 

Duchess.     Well — (Takes   the   paper  and   reads 

it) 

Mme.  Arriego.  (To  the  Pocf)  ]>eautiful.  su- 
perb ! 

Mme.   de  Loudan.     Beautiful!     Inspired! 


98  THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

General.     Remarkable!     One  excellent  line! 

Des  Millets.     Oh,  General! 

General.  Yes,  indeed!  An  excellent  line! 
"The — "  how  does  it  go?  "Honor  is  like  a  god 
which  hath  one  altar  only !  " 

Paul.     {To  Jeanne)     A  trifle  too  many  feet! 

Bellac.  {To  Lucy  after  looking  at  paper) 
T^e  died  at  six  o'clock ! 

Saint-Reault.  {To  his  wife,  showing  her 
paper)  Yes,  at  six  o'clock.  Oh,  I  have  M.  Tou- 
lonnier's  promise ! 

Bellac.  {To  Lucy)  Toulonnier  gave  me  a 
formal  promise 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {To  the  Duchess)  Toulon- 
nier is  on  our  side. 

Duchess.     Well,  where  is  your  Toulonnier? 

Saint-Reault.     He  just  received  a  telegram. 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  {Aside)  That  confirms  the 
appointment.  Good! — But  why — ?  {Enter  Tou- 
lonnier)    Ah — At  last! 

All.     It's  he!     Ah!     Ah! 

(Toulonnier   comes   down-stage,   surrounded   by 
the  company.) 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     My  dear  Secretary  General! 

Saint-Reault,     My  dear  Toulonnier! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Well,  the  telegram -? 

Bellac.     It's  about  poor  Revel,  is  it  not? 

Toulonnier.     {Embarassed)    Yes,  about  Revel. 

Bellac.     Well,  what  about  him? 

Duchess.  {Looking  at  Toulonnier)  It  says 
he  isn't  dead! 

Mme.  de  Ceran,  Bellac,  and  Saint-Reault. 
{Showing  the  papers)     But  the  papers! 

Duchess.     Thev're  mistaken! 

All.     Oh! 

Duchess.  For  once!  {To  Toulonnier) 
Aren't  they? 


THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  99 

TouLOUNNiER.     Well,  he's  not  exactly  dead! 

Saint-Reault.      (Sinking  into  a   chair)     Yet? 

Duchess.  And  I'll  warrant  he's  received  an- 
other appointment! 

Toulon NiER.  Commander  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor. 

Saint-Reault.     A^ain ! 

Toulon  NIER.      (Shozving  his  telegram)     It  wiU' 
appear    in     to-morrow's     Official!       (To     Saint- 
Reault,    sympathetically)       Believe    me,    I     feel 
deeply ! 

Duchess.  (Aside,  looking  at  Toulonnier) 
He  knew  it  before  he  came  this  evening!  He's  a 
good  one ! — I  too  have  some  important  news  to 
announce ! 

All.      (Turning   toward   the  Duchess)      Ahh! 

Duchess.     Two  things! 

Lucy.     What? 

Mme.  de  Loudan.     What,  Duchess? 

Bellac.     What  ? 

Duchess.  First,  the  engagement  of  our  friend 
Miss  Lucy  Watson  to  Professor  Bellac ! 

All.     Bellac?     What!! 

Bellac.     (Aside)     Duchess! 

Duchess.  Ah !  You  must  make  some  repara- 
tion. 

Bellac.  Rep —  Oh!  With  pleasure!  Ah, 
Lucy ! 

Lucy.     (Astonished)     Why,  Madame! 

Duchess.     (Aside)     Reparation,  my  child! 

Lucy.  None  is  necessary  because  there  is  no 
fault  to  repair!  However,  my  ideas  and  m.y  in- 
clinations are  in  perfect  harmony.  (^She  gives  her 
hand  to  Bellac) 

Bellac.     Ah,  Lucy! 

Duchess.     Good!     Number  one! 

Mme.  de  Loudan.  You  are  the  happiest  of 
women,  Lucy! 

Duchess.     Second  piece  of  news. 


loo        THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED. 

Mme.  de  Loudan.     Another  engagement? 

Duchess.     Yes. 

Mme.  de  Loudan.     It's  a  regular  festival! 

Duchess.  The  engagement  of  my  dear  nephew, 
Roger  de  Ceran 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Duchess! 

Duchess.  To  a  girl,  who  is  very  dear  to  my 
heart 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     Oh,  Aunt! 

Duchess.     My  sole  heir — — 

Mme.  de  Ceran.    Your ? 

Duchess.  My  fortune  and  my  family  name 
will  be  hers — !  My  adopted  daughter.  Mademoi- 
selle Suzanne  de  Villiers  de  Reville. 

Suzanne.  (Throtving  herself  into  iJie  Duchess' 
arms)     Oh,  my  mother! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.     But,  Duchess ! 

Duchess.     Find  a  richer  and  a  nobler  name! 

Mme.  de  Ceran.  Oh,  Fm  not  saying — and  yet — 
{To  Roger)     Consider,  Roger • 

Roger.     I  love  her,  Mother. 

Duchess.  (Looking  about  her)  Number  two! 
There  remains —  (To  Paul)  Come  here,  will 
you?     What  reparation  are  you  going  to  make? 

Paul.  (Ashamed)  Ah,  Duchess,  it  was  you, 
then  ? 

Jeanne.  (Confused)  Ah,  Madame,  then  you 
heard ? 

Duchess.     Yes,  little  trickster,  I  did. 

Paul.    Oh ! 

Duchess.  But,  since  you  didn't  say  too  much 
evil  of  me,  FU  forgive  you.    You'll  be  Prefect 

Paul.     Oh,  Duchess!     (He  kisses  her  hand) 

Jeanne.  Ah,  Madame — !  "Gratitude",  as 
Saint-Evremont  says 

Paul.     What's  the  use — now 


V 


CURTAIN. 


THE   WORLD'S    BEST  PLAYS 

By    Celebrated    European    Authors 


A  NEW  SERIES  OF  AMATEUR   PLAYS   BY   THE   BEST 
AUTHORS,    ANCIENT    AND    MODERN,    ESPECIALLY 
TRANSLATED  WITH  HISTORICAL  NOTES,  SUG- 
GESTIONS   FOR   STAGING,    Etc.,    FOR    THE 
USE    OF    SCHOOLS,    COLLEGES,     AND 
DRAMATIC  CLUBS 

Barrett   h.    Clark 

General     E«iit*r 


ITH  the  irumensely  increased  demand  for  new 
plays  for  purposos  of  production  by  amateurs 
comes  a  cx)rresp«jiidinfe'Iy  g^reat  demand  for  a  care- 
ful selection  of  those  plays  which  can  be  easily 
and  well  presented  by  clubs  and  colleges.  The 
plays  in  the  present  series  have  been  chosen  with 
regard  to  their  intrinsic  value  as  drama  and  liter- 
ature, and  at  the  same  time  to  their  adaptability  to  the  need*  and 
limit a'lions  of  such  ojsranizalions. 

The  :?eriee,  under  the  ijersonal  supervision  of  Mr.  Barrett  H. 
Clark,  Instructor  in  the  department  of  Dramatic  Literature  at 
(.'hauiauuua,  New  York,  assistant  siag^e  manager  and  actor  with 
Mrs.  Flske  (season  1912-11U3).  now  comprises  ten  volumes,  and  fifteen 
more  wili  niaice  their  appearance  during-  the  year-  Eventually 
there  will  be  i>lays  from  ancient  Greece  and  Rome.  Italy.  Spain, 
France.  Russia,  Germany,  and  the  Scandinarlan  countries,  repre- 
sentative of  some  of  the  best  drama  of  all  a^es  and  lauds. 

Each  volume  is  prefaced  by  a  concise  historical  note  by  Mr.  Clftrk, 

Mad  with  a  few  sugtrestions  for  staging. 


Plays    No^v    Ready 

I79DIAN  SUMMER,  a  comedy  iu  one  act  by  Meilhao  and 
Halsvy.  This  little  play,  by  two  of  the  most  famous  writers  of 
comedy  of  tlie  last  century,  has  been  played  at  the  Com6die  Fran- 
caise  at  Paris  for  upwards  of  forty  years,  and  remains  one  of  the 
brightest  aud  most  popular  works  of  the  period.   Price  25  Cents. 

ROSALIE,  by  Max  Maurey.  A  "  Grand  Guignoi"  comedy  in 
one  act,  full  of  verve  aud  clever  dialogue.  Rosalie,  the  stubborn  maid, 
leads  her  none  too  amiable  master  and  mistress  into  uncomfortable 
complications  by  refusing  to  open  the  front  door  to  a  supposed  guest 
of  wealth  and  influence.    Prick  25  Cents. 

MODESTY,  by  Paul  IIebvieu.  A  delightful  trifle  by  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  of  living  dramatists.    Price  25  Cents. 

THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED,  {Lt  Monde  ou  Von  s'Ennuie),  a 
comedy  in  three  acts  by  Edouard  Pailleron.  Probably  the  best- 
known  and  most  frequently  acted  comedy  of  manners  in  the  realm 
of  nineteenth  century  French  drama.  It  is  replete  with  wit  and 
comic  situations.  For  nearly  forty  years  it  has  held  the  stage, 
while  countless  imitators  have  endeavored  to  reproduce  its  fresh- 
ness and  charm.    Pni<;E  2,')  Tknts. 

A  MARRIAGE  PROPOSAL,  by  Anton  TcusKHOifK,  a  comedy 

iu  one  act,  by  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern  iiussian  writers.  This 
little  farce  is  very  popular  in  Russia,  and  satirises  the  peasants  of 
that  country  in  an  amusing  manner.    Price  25  Cests. 

THE  GREEN  COiVT,  by  Alfred  de  Mtjsset  and  Emilb  Augier. 

A  slight  and  comic  character  sketch  of  the  life  of  Bohemian  artists 
Iu  Paris,  written  by  one  of  France's  greatest  poets  and  one  of  her 
best-known  di-amatists.    T'rice  25  Cents. 

THE  WAGER,  by  tiiusEPPE  Giach)sa.  This  one  act  poetic 
eoniedy,  written  by  the  most  celebrated  dramatist  of  modem  Italy, 
was  the  author's  first  work.  It  treats  of  a  wager  made  by  a  proud 
youag  page,  who  risks  his  life  on  the  outcome  of  a  game  of  chess. 
Price  25  Cknts. 


THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERDESS,  a  poetic  comedy  In  one  act, 
by  Andre  Rivoirb.  A  charming  pastoral  sketch  by  a  well-known 
French  poet  and  dramatist.  Played  with  success  at  the  ComSdle 
FrancaJse,    Price  25  Cents. 

PHORMIO,  a  Latin  comedy  by  Terence.  An  up-to-date  version 
of  the  famous  comedy.  One  of  the  masterpieces  of  Latin  drama: 
the  story  of  a  father  who  returns  to  find  that  his  son  has  married 
a  slave  g^irl.  Phormio,  the  parasite-villain  who  causes  the  numerous 
comic  complications,  succeeds  in  unraveling-  the  difficulties,  and 
all  ends  hapyiiy.    Price  25  Cents. 

THE  TWINS,  a  Latin  farce  by  Plaut^us,  upon  which  iShake- 
spcare  founded  ins  Comedy  of  Errox-s.    Price  25  Cbnts. 

THE  BOOR,  by  Anton  Tchekofk.  A  well-known  farce  by  the 
celebrated  Russian  master;  it  is  concerned  with  Russian  peasants, 
and  portrays  with  masterly  skill  the  comic  side  of  country  life. 
Price  25  Cents. 

THE  BLACK  PEARL,  by  Victorien  Sardou.    One  of  Sardou'a 
famous  comedies  of  intrigue.     A  house  has,   it    is  thout'ht, 
robbed.    Hut  through  skilful   investij^ation  it  is  found  that  the 
lavoc  wroUfo'ht  lias  been  done  by  ligrhtning'.    Price  25  Cents. 

CHARMING  LEA>'DRE,  by  Theodork  de  Hanvili.e.  Tlie 
author  of  "  Grinti'oire  "  is  here  seen  in  a  poetic  vein,  yet  the  French- 
man's innate  sense  of  humor  recalls,  in  this  satirical  little  play,  the 
e^enius  of  Moliere.    Price  25  Cents. 

THE  POST-SCRIPTUM.  by  Emile  AnaiER.  Of  this  one-act 
comedy  Processor  Brander  Matthews  writes:  "...  one 
of  the  brightest  and  most  brilliant  little  one-act  comedies  in  any 
lauffuag-e,  and  to  be  warmly  recommended  to  American  readers." 
Price  25  Cen'is. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  FOITRCHAMBAULT.  by  Emile  AuGfER. 
One  of  the  tj-reatest  of  recent  French  family  dramas.  Although  the 
play  Is  serious  in  tone,  it  contains  touches  which  entitle  It  to  a 
position  amongr  the  best  comedies  of  manners  of  the  times.  Priom 
.xi  Cents. 


THE  DOCTOR  IPf  SPITB  OF  HIMSELF,  by  MOUBRE.  A 
famous  farce  by  the  greatest  of  French  dramatists.  S&anarelle  has 
to  be  beaten  before  he  will  acknowledge  that  he  is  a  doctor,  which 
he  is  not.  He  then  works  apparently  miraculous  cures.  The  play 
is  a  sharp  satire  on  the  medical  profession  in  the  17th  Century. 
Prire  25  Cents. 

BRIG:N0L  and  his  daughter,  by  Capus.  The  first 
comedy  in  English  of  the  most  sprightly  and  satirical  of  present- 
day  French  dramatists.    Pricb  50  Cents. 

CHOOSING  A  CAREER,  by  G.  A.  DB  Caillavet.  Written  by 
one  of  the  authors  of  "  Love  Watches."  A  farce  of  mistaken 
identity,  full  of  humorous  situations  and  bright  lines.    Pbiok  26 

Cents. 

FRENCH  WITHOUT  A  MASTER,  by  Tristan  Bernard.    A 
clever  farce  by  one  of  the  most  successful  of  French  dramatistsV\ 
It  is  concerned  with   the  difficulties   of  a    l)Ogus-Interpreter  who 
does  not  know  a  word  of  French.    Price  25  Cents. 

PATER  NOSTER,  a  poetic  play  in  one  act,  by  Francois 
COPPEE.  A  pathetic  incident  of  the  time  of  the  Paris  Commune, 
In  1871.    Price  35  Cents. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  BUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINe'oF  25  CENTS 

W,UU  BE  ASS.SSEO   ^O^  J^'-^Ve^PENaI^ 
OVERDUE. 


I    Photomount 
Pamphlet 
Binder 

Gaylord  Bros.,  Inc. 

Makers 

Stockton,  Calif. 

PAT.  JAN.  21,  1908 


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